Inquisitor Carrow and the Tournament of Tribulations
by littlewhitecat
Summary: His plans to insert himself within the guts of the Ministry of Magic have been highly successful, his apprentices are proving to be both talented and intuitive, and his efforts to consolidate his position within the mundane world are proceeding nicely. But as he knows all to well, all plans disintegrate on contact with reality...and what is English Heritage anyway?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**

So here it finally is, the very first chapter of Carrow's next adventure...which has resulted in a surprising amount of research so far...

-Russian tanks of WWII  
-Armored Personnel carriers used during the Yugoslavian conflict.  
-Sten guns.  
-Military radio call signs.  
-Military radio procedure.  
-British Police uniforms, mainly when did they starting having their names on velcro badges.  
-British traffic police, which resulted in much watching of Road Wars.  
-UK cars of the 90's.

This is just so far.

I would write a scene and then think, what would would they have, do, say in this situation? And it's always the little details that slip you up...

...well, I hope you enjoy this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. It will make all those strange looks I got while cackling with laughter to myself in Costa worth it.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The portrait woke from its doze with a start, gazing around in incomprehension as she took in her surroundings. Where in Merlin's name _was_ she? Directly in front of the portrait frame was a stand filled with lit candles, and a brazier burning incense in a thick blue cloud. Nearby glints of gold caught her attention...only for her to come face to face with several dozen skulls, placed carefully on a rack specially designed for the purpose, most of them heavily decorated with gilded lettering and acanthus work, spelling out quotes in a strange form of Latin.

Across from her frame, she could clearly see a wide open space that could easily accommodate several hundred people, with an elaborately tiled floor, more gilded decoration on strong pillars, which flowed up to an arched and vaulted ceiling, lost in the gloom of the minimal illumination. On the other side of this space were more of the racks, partially filled with more of the decorated skulls; some of them looked as if they had been painted. Above them were dense paintings of...all sorts of things. It was too dark to really make out what was going on, but it looked repetitive...and violent.

Further over to the right, if she leaned forward as far as she could, she could just glimpse an altar raised up on a low dais, covered with a crisp white cloth, flowers and candles placed on it...and above, a heroic depiction of a man wearing heavy alien armour of a type she had never seen before...but it was the man's expression that sent chills down her spine...an expression of utter conviction that what he was doing was _right_.

She shivered with building apprehension as to where she was, to what had happened since she had died. "James," she hissed nudging her husband in the ribs, "wake up, you need to see this."

"Whuzat?" James muttered as he looked round blearily, quickly snapping awake as he took in their new home. "What the _hell_," he exclaimed, looking around in horror. "Lily, what's happened?" he asked. But Lily shushed him, pointing to the gigantic hooded figure that had entered this...whatever it was. Their surroundings became increasingly visible, as the light levels increased, light glinting off gilded statuary and decorated skulls, animated paintings of epic battles to the death, rivers of gore and the literal mountains of corpses...

James grimaced as the wall-painting directly opposite them was revealed to be a blue armoured monstrosity, who methodically disembowelled a tentacled horror with his bare hands, in a rush of sticky green gore...

"That is _disgusting_," James muttered, curling his lip in revulsion. Lily elbowed him in the ribs again, as the hooded figure came to a halt in front of them.

Any misgivings Lily had had were further reinforced as, for the next half hour or so, the darkly shrouded giant prayed in front of them in a deep and booming growl, a string of prayer beads running through his large and deft fingers, the light glinting off the ruby eyes of a particularly ugly skull ring. Lily couldn't help but notice how remarkably like knuckle bones the prayer beads looked. The giant finally left after renewing the incense and candles.

"We're in a chapel of some kind," Lily whispered to James, bewilderment colouring her voice. "Why? What on Earth has happened?"

James shrugged helplessly. "I must admit," he whispered back, pushing his glasses up his nose, "I thought Moldyshorts had won, and we were some sort of...trophy, but listening to that lunatic...my Latin's a little rusty, but I think we might be an object of veneration." He looked at his wife with an incredulous frown.

"I wish you wouldn't call him that," Lily muttered back.

"What?" James asked, bewildered.

"Moldyshorts!" she glared. "It's trivialising the whole war doing that...not to mention potentially dangerous."

James chuckled at the familiar argument, gently putting his arms around his beloved wife. "You know me," he grinned down at her, "got to put the "fun" into fundamentalist."

Lily harrumphed crossly at him, folding her arms.

"But you do agree with me about the veneration thing?" he asked, resting his chin gently on the top of her head, smiling as Lily leant into him.

"Yes, I do," she whispered, "I think we might be honoured ancestors...I wonder how much time had passed. This isn't the Wizarding World I remember, and some of those wall-paintings were using muggle style weapons that looked really high-tech...but really old at the same time..." she trailed off, as the sound of clicking footsteps trailed up the Chapel, the light levels increasing once again...but it wasn't the giant returning.

Lily and James watched in horror as a hideous...thing strode up to the main altar. A curious hybrid of gilded filigree and old yellowing bones, blue glowing runes trailing along their lengths, it walked upright on backward jointed knees and taloned feet. The...thing paused in front of the main altar, crossing its hands across its chest and bowing its head, its glowing eyes flickering momentarily.

They watched as it dusted the altar, tended the candles, and refreshed the flowers. Stepping back, it hissed a series of prayers in the same garbled Latin as the giant...and then its horse's head turned towards them, its eye sockets filled with blue bale-fire. James and Lily cringed backwards as the creature approached.

"Oh Merlin, what the _hell_ is that supposed to be?" James gasped as the gilded monstrosity brandished a feather duster at them.

OOOOOO

Whistling happily to himself, a spring in his step, the God-Emperor of Mankind strode into the coffee shop, a folder stuffed with papers under his arm. Even the parchment letter tucked in among them couldn't dampen his good mood. What a fantastic holiday that had been, he'd actually got to see his pocket fusion engine in action...and it had worked perfectly.

Cappuccino in one hand, cinnamon bun in the other he went and found a seat nice and comfortably out of the way. Some people liked window seats where they could sit and watch the world go by but he much preferred a little quiet corner where he could contemplate and think and doodle...

Ah perfect...he sank back with a contented sigh stretching out his legs and sipping his coffee...the past week...oh, that had been incredible. He'd agreed to visit the research department at Aquila Industries at the invitation (more like pleading) of Mr Carrow's personal secretary. He'd been rather dubious at first but the more he thought about it...the letter had been requesting his assistance in testing a vehicle, apparently a surprise present for Mr Carrow.

Unsure as to what he was going to find, the God-Emperor had arrived at the non-descript building, Victorian industrial gothic if he was any judge, on the outskirts of a little town called Godric's Hollow...to be greeted with awe and excitement by the over enthusiastic and motley team of scientists, engineers and... wizards... witches...magical people who made up the research and development team of Aquila Industries...who had built several working models of his pocket fusion engine, had adapted and developed it further, and now had tasked to...driving a motorbike...and such a motorbike.

He had had several long and involved discussions with several of the engineers of the problems the suspension alone had caused them. The actual bike itself was heavy and bulky, built to withstand the brutal punishment only someone like Carrow could dish out. Carrow was also not exactly a light-weight, and when his armour became involved... The God-Emperor sighed wistfully; he really wanted to have a closer examination of that armour, just a little peek. Really, descriptions and pictures just didn't do it justice...

...and so the engineers had resorted to looking at systems used in extreme vehicles, 60 tonne super-lorries, dumper trucks used for open-cast mining, the transporter used to move the shuttle to its launch pad...the list went on and on, as they put together something that would survive Carrow. It wasn't pretty, but it worked...and then they miniaturized it...and that's before they even got on to the special tyres...the special alloy they had developed for the ball bearings used in the drive system...

...and then he got to test-drive it, he smirked to himself. It wasn't often he came across a vehicle that was actually capable of coping with his real physicality but this came very close. Blocky, ugly and as belligerent as the man it was designed for, it handled like a wild animal, as he test drove it, putting it through its paces, gave feed-back on its performance and assisted in any adjustments and fine-tuning...

...though it had been very amusing when the magical staff witnessed him using his pencil wand, he chuckled round a mouthful of cinnamon bun, yes, they'd got rather upset about that, as if it were against nature, but as he'd pointed out to them it worked perfectly well and it was always handy for the crossword...

...all concluding with the road-worthy testing for the DVLA. Testing the stopping distance had been particularly fun and really showed off the braking system Frank and his team had put so much effort into designing...

...it had been one of the best holidays he'd had in years, he'd made so many friends. Maybe he could order a bike for himself particularly if he offered one of his inventions as a form of payment, his anti-gravity device was coming along nicely...for surely a custom built motorcycle like that would cost a pretty penny...

He sighed heavily as he finished the last of the bun and pulled out the parchment letter that had been delivered only this morning by Fawkes. Waking up to a swan-sized phoenix attempting to snuggle into the crook of his neck had been disconcerting to say the least.

He eyed the address on the front with a heavy sigh. _Mr God-Emperor, Geneva, Switzerland,_ written in iridescent rainbow coloured ink that shifted and changed as he watched. If purple ink had been the bearer of bad news, he dreaded what this eye watering stuff indicated. Maybe Carrow had managed to accidentally destroy the world while he wasn't looking. Gingerly, he opened it...

_...and I fear greatly that Mr Carrow gained his new role within our government through nefarious means..._

_...pushing through legislation of a rather controversial nature...without consultation of the wider Wizengamot..._

_...furthered his personal agenda..._

_...and due to a steady number of articles in the Daily Prophet supporting and promoting his position and political views, I believe that he has somehow conspired to subvert the press to his will... _

_...insisting on all potential Ministry personnel sitting an entrance exam to ensure a high standard of applicants..._

...Oh...no. Just infiltrating the British Wizarding Government and subverting and twisting it to his will. What mad idiot would give Allesandor Carrow a role like that?

"Hey Jon, fancy hiding in a corner like this," an overly cheerful voice loudly exclaimed as someone plonked themselves noisily down in front of him, "had a nice holiday? Topped up your tan? Met any nice birds?"

The God-Emperor looked up with a mental groan, trying discretely to hide Dumbledore's letter from view. Marvin, why did it have to be Marvin? He was just so brash and loud and...good at what he did, make no mistake, but if he were a fabric design, he'd be bright orange paisley; subtlety was not a word in the man's vocabulary.

"Ooh, bird trouble, eh?" Marvin loudly exclaimed, spying the letter.

"Err..." the God-Emperor began, but Marvin interrupted.

"Chocolates, that's what you need," Marvin nodded sagely, "girls _love_ chocolates, the more expensive the better...or you could try flowers. A nice big bouquet of roses and all will be forgiven. Hold on, I can give you the number for this really brilliant florist!" Marvin fished around in the pockets of his coat.

The God-Emperor groaned.

OOOOOO

It was late afternoon, as they carefully worked their way through what might have once been an olive grove. The gnarled and twisted trees looked ancient, casting long and eerie shadows across the ground. It was definitely the sort of place that should play host to at least one tree nymph, Timothy thought, as he carefully edged forward, Browning at the ready; you could practically see faces in the texture of the bark watching them, peering down at them from every tree... every branch...

He mentally gave his over active imagination a good kick; the last thing he needed at the moment was to be jumping at shadows.

"All right?" Wulfric murmured softly behind him. Timothy turned slightly to look at his sort-of-friend and second in command. Dressed in khakis and sludge green, Wulfric stood out amongst Carrow's retinue and their unrelieved black. How the werewolf had managed it, Timothy didn't know, considering Carrow's over-bearing tendencies; he suspected it might have something to do with a whole series of colour-changing pranks that had occurred not long after Wulfric's arrival, but he didn't want to pry, being reluctant to poke a potential ant's hill of trouble. There was only so much danger he wanted in his life.

The combat rifle Wulfric was carrying, tucked up close to his chest, was a potential new product for Aquila Industries; if it passed the field tests, of course. The Cadia IV was an ugly object, looking like the offspring of a Sten gun and an AK-47. So far it had performed well, not jamming, and even working when Wulfric (in a fit of utter stupidity) accidentally dropped his in a mud filled ditch.

Timothy grimaced in reply. "Surviving," he muttered back.

Glancing round, he checked the position of the others. The new people seemed to be coping reasonably well (but then the rotting corpse hadn't hit the fan yet); the ex-soldiers had been slightly surprised, and a little concerned as to the legality of what they were doing, but had taken to sloping around the war-torn Yugoslavian countryside like ducks to water. Having Carrow as a boss probably encouraged them too...

The possibly ex-SAS man (but he wasn't admitting to anything), who insisted everyone should call him Chuddy, had been a little reluctant about the ladies at first, and highly suspicious of Carrow, but Timothy had caught him teaching Juno and Athena, the two definitely ex-army ladies some particularly vicious knife tricks a few days ago, so hopefully he was getting used to them.

Juno and Athena were...well, getting on like a house on fire was a pretty good analogy. They seemed to take great delight in trying out any new equipment or prototypes the R&amp;D department threw their way. Both were currently carrying prototype energy weapons as part of their equipment on this mission. The bulky combat rifles were currently displaying an irritating tendency to overheat, though the slugs of plasma they produced when working were devastatingly effective, melting through metal, plastic, people...even concrete to a degree.

All of them had been personally chosen by Carrow.

Just a month previously, at Carrow's insistence Timothy had place an advert for "security personnel" preferably with military experience, in "Guns and Ammo" magazine. He'd weeded out the time wasters, the inexperienced, the ones likely to commit suicide from prolonged contact with Carrow, the ones who might instead go berserk. These were the absolute cream of a very motley bunch, though Timothy had thrown a few wild cards into the mix...just in case.

The two dozen prospective candidates had been rather suspicious, wary and more than a little puzzled when their follow-up interview turned out to be combat based...in a wood...with air rifles.

"_Your task today is to find Mr Carrow," Timothy announced as he paced back and forth in front of them, leather great coat swirling around his ankles, "and," he grinned, his scars pulling oddly, "attempt to bring him down." He gestured to the wood behind him. "Mr Carrow is not armed, and he's very keen on seeing you all in action. Well...go and find him."_

_The interviewees stared at him as if he were mad._

"_If you need medical attention, just make your way back here." He gave them a reassuring smile. Some of the more sensitive individuals winced. "I've got a first aid kit in the car."_

_Reluctantly, the interviewees began to make their way into the wood._

"_Rich idiots," a short wiry man with a moustache muttered to himself as he went past shaking his head. Chuddy, Timothy thought he had said his name was._

"_You know, that probably isn't the best way to have your first meeting with the Big Boss," Wulfric commented idly as they watched the innocents disappear among the trees._

_Timothy hummed to himself. "What's the likelihood we'll have to take some of them to A&amp;E?"_

_Wulfric just laughed._

_And then Wulfric and Timothy were alone, with just the breeze in the trees and the chatter of birds for company. So now here they were sitting in the Hummer, drinking coffee and watching the woods for anything, any sign at all. It was both boring and nerve-wracking at the same time._

The _Hummer_...Timothy ground his teeth in frustration. All he'd wanted was a car, something small and unassuming, a run-around that wasn't too expensive to run or insure...and then Carrow had to stick his giant fingers in...Timothy hissed angrily to himself unaware of Wulfric's concerned looks...

_Sudden movement among the trees caught their attention, as a small huddle of people slowly approached. Piling out of the Hummer Timothy and Wulfric went to meet them. Slung between the dark haired woman and the short wiry man with the moustache was a blond mouthy idiot who had told anyone who would listen that he was ex-SAS; both of them were struggling to conceal their amusement at their fellow interviewee's current state, semi-conscious, mud down the front of the man's previously pristine fatigues. _

"_Tripped over a tree-root," the wiry man explained with a grin._

Closely shadowing them was Hermione Granger, toting a man-portable mini gun of all things, her demeanour focused and serious. He'd actually had an argument with Carrow over her presence in the mission; a war-zone was no place for a fourteen year old girl, but Carrow had calmly pointed out that he'd been even younger, only twelve when he'd first encountered war, and killed in combat, so he really couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Timothy had backed down in the end; getting Carrow to change his mind was an act in futility, and so he carefully watched after Ms Granger, looked out for her, helped her with her training so she would be as prepared as possible. Heck, he liked the girl, she was like the little sister he'd always wanted, the person he felt closest to by far among Carrow's merry band of misfits, and he was blowed if he was going to allow any harm to come to her.

The last member of his little band...Timothy sighed heavily, closing his eyes in exasperation. Nigel Bradely certainly knew his way round a radio and could practically talk in Morse code (much to Carrow's delight), a form of communication that Carrow claimed was virtually sacred to the "Mechanicus" that he sometimes violently ranted about. But the gangly youth was just so...irritating, and the nasty case of hero worship wasn't helping either.

Timothy grimaced in annoyance as they sidled round some abandoned farm buildings. Solidly built in stone, they appeared to be empty, but appearances could be so deceiving. Bradley's audible "ouch" as he stubbed his toe really didn't do anything for his nerves.

The outhouses turned out to be part of a complex of buildings including a farmhouse, a barn full of arcane farming equipment, a hay loft, an empty stables...all of it deserted, the only sign of life the sad corpse of a dog chained up and unable to escape, now nothing more than a bag of bones. But there were no signs of panic or of a quick and frantic exit, nor were there signs of violence, of blood, of executions...of disturbed ground.

Timothy could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising, his stomach churning with anxiety. Something was very wrong here...but what. He exchanged looks with Hermione; young as she was, she could sense it too...

"We aren't staying here a moment longer...take _nothing,_ not even water," he announced to his people. Chuddy and the ladies gave him strange looks, but accepted it with minimal fuss.

"Why no water?" Chuddy asked him, as they carried on down the rocky hillside. "Do you think the occupants were...poisoned, or something?"

Timothy eyed him a moment. "I'm not certain...but I do know whatever happened to them was probably unpleasant in a ...numinous sort of way. It could have come from anywhere, been introduced via numerous ways, so best not to disturb anything."

Chuddy eyed him thoughtfully, though his unease at the situation was clear to see. Chuddy had not been happy to find out about the existence of magic. It wasn't the magic itself per se, it was more the idea that others could use it against him and he wouldn't be able to fight back against it. Timothy felt rather sympathetic towards him, and so their code to skirt around this rather sensitive subject had been...numinous.

"You'll be fine," Timothy reassured him, "most wizards are horrifically unfit, and they never consider the killing capabilities of non-magical weapons."

"So I'm supposed to rely on their innate arrogance, laziness, and complete lack of imagination," Chuddy muttered dubiously.

"Pray you don't meet a muggle-born like me; we tend to be more... resourceful." Timothy smirked at him, giving his cavalry sabre a comforting pat.

Chuddy snorted sarcastically at him.

And that was when they heard the gun fire, a rattling crack-crack-crack followed by another, and a small explosion. Timothy slowed their approach, signalling for the utmost caution as they made their way down the steep hillside, working their way from tree to tree, rocky outcrop to rocky outcrop, the sounds of combat ever louder, accompanied by the sounds of engines and increasingly shouts, angry...pained...

Just past a sharp bend on the road, pinned between the steep rocky hillside and a precipitous drop was an armoured personnel carrier, most likely an FV432, skewed slightly across the road. In front of it lay a battered and smoking wreck of a vehicle. It might once have been another personnel carrier, but life had not been kind to it. Currently, it was being used as cover by a rag-tag group of men in broken-down uniform, soldiers turned bandits.

The passengers of the ambushed vehicle were making these bandits pay for their temerity with their blood, and, despite the bandits' greater number, would have succeeded had it not been for the rust bucket of a tank that had snuck up behind them. Only a madman or someone with nothing to lose would try to get such an unwieldy vehicle along such a twisting, treacherous road.

Timothy scanned the furious fire-fight with his binoculars, trying to assess the situation as quickly as he could, taking in the battered vehicles, the dead bodies strewn on the road, some surprisingly familiar faces. He frowned distractedly; where had he seen them before? And then a heart stopping moment...Matthew...his brother...this was his brother's squad fighting for their lives. Well, there was really only one thing he could do given the circumstances.

"Wulfric, take Juno and Athena, and take out that tank...with extreme prejudice. Wait for the signal," Timothy commanded, his expression grim, "Chuddy, Granger, Bradley...you're with me..."

He led them further down the slope, behind the bandits' APC, and then carefully down onto the edge of the road, sheltering behind fallen debris that hadn't been cleared in the normal way; there was too much chaos for anyone to care about moving fallen boulders from a country road. Timothy quickly outlined his plan to the others, who readied themselves for the fight to come, Bradely looking pale, checking his rifle once again, Granger gripping the mini-gun, her expression determined and grim, Chuddy..."I don't like this, they're UN peace keepers, we're just civvies who shouldn't even _be_ here," he muttered, clearly unhappy, Cadia IV clutched to his chest, bayonet already in place. Timothy stared at him from behind his stony expressionless mask.

"Your objections are duly noted," he muttered back stiffly, "now get into place."

As they quickly crept across the road and took their places, Timothy drew his sword and clicked the speak button on the Tandy walkie-talkie twice. The blue of warp-fyre began to play around his fingers; it was the only type of psykery that he'd managed to master so far...but so useful. The whine-zap-crackle of the energy rifles quickly followed after.

"Now," he hissed to Granger. Bracing herself, the girl opened fire into the backs of the bandits who had taken shelter behind the damaged APC. Taken by surprise, they were cut in half, staggering, falling, blood and gore splattering up the vehicles, across the road, over their stunned and reeling brothers-in-arms who turned desperately, trying to bring their weapons to bear...

Granger fell back, and as they came forward, he threw the warp-fyre with a flick of his wrist, quickly gathering more, the crackle of the others' rifles around him followed by more quick controlled bursts of the mini-gun...

...and then they were on them, and his sword leapt forward, impaling a surprised youth with a rusty AK-47 clutched in his hands. He kicked the boy's body away, threw fire into the stubbly unwashed face of another man, slashed across the stomach of a third who screamed a horrible bubbling sound that would haunt Timothy's dreams for months, ducked under a rifle butt, stabbing another in the throat as he tried to lunge past...a vague impression of Chuddy stabbing someone in the stomach with his bayonet, shooting him in the head as the bandit went down, clutching the gushing wound...another bandit, furious, bad teeth, screaming incoherently, trying to club him with his rifle...he ran him through...a ballet of slash and lunge and blue fire death, the stench of blood and gore and fear, screams and shouts and distant explosions, one so large that it shook the ground, and then...

...and then, it was all over. He looked around for the next enemy, circling on the spot, but only his people were standing, Granger kicking corpses, checking their...status, Chuddy with a glazed looking grin on his face, Bradley limping slightly, dazed...he breathed a sigh of relief...at least he hadn't got any of them killed...now to check on Wulfric and the others.

Timothy slowly and carefully made his way around the wrecked APC, carefully drawing the Browning as he did so, conscious of the fact that there were still-living muggle soldiers on the other side...hopefully...

...right into the face of a surprised and terrified man, broken down uniform, bad teeth...he shot him in the face, and then ran the one behind through with his sabre...but the next ones were ready, their guns in place, snarling in anger for their fallen friends...he twisted in space, a whirl of magic and he apparated behind them, one arm already bringing up the Browning for the kill shot, the man's face disintegrating in a wash of bone splinters and brain pulp...his sword found the other, dismembering him, running him through...he twisted and turned in space again, impaling another, a young one, terrified and pleading...a sharp pain as he brought the Browning round for the shot. The gun skittered off into space, and he turned, bellowing his fury, _"Ave Imperator!" _ Wrenching his sword free, gathering warp-fyre around his fingers, he slashed across the screaming man's arms, and threw the fyre into his shocked face...which, enveloped with the unnatural fire, disintegrated in a wash of burning flesh and bone, the man's last terrible scream fading away...he turned on the spot looking for the next attacker, but...

Chuddy pulled his bayonet out of a prone body, and Granger joined in, checking the fallen for signs of life, and shooting anything that twitched, Bradely hanging back, Cadia IV at the ready, in case of trouble...

Timothy turned towards the UN vehicle, dreading what he would see, his frigid mask tightly in place. The soldiers of his brother's squad stood there, battered and bruised, but watchful, weapons at the ready. His brother stood among them, a graze down the side of his face, his expression unreadable.

"Oh look," one of the soldiers piped up sarcastically, "it's Timmy the _Civvie_."

Ignoring the stupid comment, Timothy strode forward, his face utterly rigid but his eyes blazing with worry, anger...

"You bloody idiot," he snarled at Matthew, "what the _hell_ are you doing here? Do you know how dangerous this area is?" His face was pale with fury, blood slowly dripping off his still unsheathed sabre.

Matthew stared at him, mouth opening and closing rather like a goldfish. "Dangerous," he spluttered, "you're a bunch of civilians; just what the _fuck_ do you think _you're_ doing wandering around a war-zone?"

"I'm working, you fool," Timothy shouted back, "what the hell are _you_ doing?"

oOo

Wulfric worked his way round the smoking remains of the tank, Juno and Athena close behind, his ears pricking up at the sound of shouting...but it didn't sound like fighting. He stared incredulously as he caught sight of the normally stoic and stony faced Tim red-faced and shouting at one of the soldiers, who was busily giving back as good as he got. But as he listened to the two, things became clearer; this was Timothy's older brother, Matthew the soldier...oh dear.

He sidled past Matthew the soldier's army colleagues, who stared at him and the ladies with varying levels of wariness and curiosity. Juno and Athena's proto-plasma rifles certainly garnered a certain level of interest as they sidled up to the shouting match, just as it started to get out of hand, Tim shouting something incoherent into his brother's face, while poking him in the chest. Matthew, wide-eyed and furious, didn't look as if he was going to take whatever the insult was lying down (something about irresponsible older brothers), and came back with fighting talk, "Just you wait till I tell mum!" he shouted back.

Wulfric sighed heavily; time to break this pair up, before they really embarrassed themselves. One of the soldiers obviously had similar ideas and so they approached the squabbling pair before they could do something really stupid.

"Tim...Timothy," he raised his voice over the shouting with little effect. Sighing heavily again, he met the eyes of his opposite number, a look of mutual understanding and exasperation passing between them. "INTERROGATOR FAULKS," he bellowed.

Finally Timothy jerked round, his eyes burning with fury and worry. "Your sword," Wulfric pointed out, "it needs cleaning."

Timothy flushed pink for forgetting something so basic, and stalked away a few paces, his great coat swirling around his legs, pulling a cloth from his utility belt and seeing to his blade.

"Corporal," the other second muttered, "what now?"

Matthew drew a shuddering breath as he watched his little brother, outlandishly dressed, looking like some mad left-over Prussian commissar, sheath his sword and accept his pistol back from one of his... team... colleagues... he didn't know what to call them...and what sort of title or rank was "Interrogator" any way?

"Who are you people?" he demanded furiously.

Wulfric grinned broadly. "We're the Inquisition! _Nobody_ expects the Inq..."

"Shut up, Wulfric," Timothy snapped, straightening his dolman and adjusting his peaked cap. Back rigid, he glared at his brother and his squad, his stony mask carefully in place. "All you need to know is that we work for Mr Carrow, and we are currently completing a...task for our employer."

Matthew watched him with narrowed eyes, glaring at the members of his group, one by one. The obvious ex-military personnel, the man, wiry with a moustache, and the two women, cradling the strangest guns he'd ever seen...the lanky freckled youth...the grinning blonde idiot, who was strangely predatory...and a girl, a young girl carrying a...mini-gun...all but one of them in battered black fatigues and body armour and coal scuttle style helmets, that were obviously new but battered and scarred... and dpm bashas as cloaks..."And who are these people?" he finally asked.

"My entourage," Timothy replied stiffly. "Wulfric, my second. Juno. Athena. Bradley. Tho..." The wiry man with the moustache cleared his throat meaningfully. "...Chuddy. Granger. They work closely with me," Timothy finished.

They eyed one another silently for a moment...and then the rapid tapping of Morse-code stuttered over the radios...all of them. Bradely quickly pulled out a notebook, rapidly writing down the message before tripping over to Timothy. "Sir," he gasped, "Interrogator Faulks, sir, a message from Mr Carrow, sir." He breathlessly handed the slip of paper over.

"Thank you, Bradely," Timothy replied stiffly, ignoring the stares of the soldiers, and examining the message carefully, before destroying it in a small burst of warp-fyre. "Right," he looked round the others, before striding over to his brother again, "we'll remove the...blockage for you, and then we'll be on our way. Wulfric, if you would," he said flicking his wand out.

Matthew grabbed his arm. "Do you think that I'm going to let you toddle off in this area? Absolutely not! You, all of you," he pointed at Timothy's motley crew of hangers-on, "are leaving this area _right now!"_

"Absolutely not," Timothy snarled back, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The two brothers glared at one another.

Matthew lunged forward but Timothy, honed by months of sparring vampires easily dodged him, pulling his Browning out and putting the muzzle to his brother's jaw. "Your mistake," his smile was a ghastly caricature, "and I think I've changed my mind. _You_...and your men, are coming with _us_."

Wulfric did a double-take, his expression increasingly horrified, "Tim...wait, Tim, what are you doing?" he hissed.

"Stop fussing Wulfric, they've got a vehicle and extra guns. I have a suspicion we're going to need both by the end of this."

OOOOOO

Barty Crouch looked around nervously, as he stuck his head round the door (or was that a hatch, he was unfamiliar with boat nomenclature) that led on to the deck of the ferry, the Dark Lord Voldemort, or what passed for him these days, firmly strapped to his chest in a baby carrier, the matching nappy bag bumping his hip. He shuddered as he felt the contact of the box the Dark Lord had made him retrieve, filthy, dirty...he felt contaminated by it. What the Dark Lord wanted with the contents, he shuddered to think...it would be terrible, but great, of that he was certain. The Magical authorities appeared to be increasingly jumpy these days, and so he daren't risk the usual transport methods; International Floo was completely out, considering how well guarded it now was. He daren't try apparating across the Channel; he was a little rusty having not done so for so many years and side-along apparition with something as magical as the Dark-Lord's temporary golem body, the possibilities for splinching...it just didn't bear thinking about.

And so he had come up with a cunning plan.

They would travel to England the muggle way, on one of those ferry things to be exact, with the Dark Lord disguised (and here he mentally winced, what _had_ he been thinking) as a baby.

A couple of confundus charms had allowed him to walk away from a "Mother and Baby" shop with the Dark Lord's disguise. The hard bit had been getting him into it; the death threats he had received had been of epic proportions. A few more confundus charms had got them past the muggle authorities, and their "customs", whatever that was, and onto the ferry thing itself. He'd hidden in one of the cabins while they left the land behind, but now...the constant rolling motion was starting to make him feel queasy, and so he was braving a walk around the deck. Maybe some fresh air would make him feel better. The day was bright and sunny, with small clouds scudding across the sky in the stiff breeze, the air fresh and crisp as he walked along, the cute bunny ears of the Dark Lord's novelty baby-gro flapping in the wind, accompanied by much dark and evil muttering from the carefully glamoured Voldemort.

Barty winced when he looked down at his precious cargo carefully strapped to his chest in the baby carrier. It had been what he could get his hands on at the time, and was as far from "wanted dark wizard" as it was possible to get, with its adorable bunny print on a pale blue background; even the nappy bag matched. But he knew that at some point in the future when the Dark Lord was able to arrange it, that he was going to pay for this, probably with parts of his anatomy. He shivered at the thought, though that could just have been the evil box banging his hip.

"Oh, isn't he adorable," an elderly female voice twittered happily by his left elbow. To Barty's utter horror, the elderly lady reached forward and tickled the Dark Lord's cheek. "Cootchy cootchy coo," she simpered. The Dark Lord Voldemort was so shocked by such treatment, that he actually fell into a stunned silence.

"How old is he?" the elderly lady asked, peering up at Barty through thick glasses. "I'm Gladys, by the way. Are you going to Dover too?"

Barty gave her a sickly smile as he realised the shivering of the Dark Lord wasn't due to cold, but pent up rage. Frantically looking round for a quick escape...he saw a nearby couple give him indulgent smiles, a little girl ran past, the hood of her coat bouncing with her movement...and there were absolutely no escape routes. When the Dark Lord finally regained his body, he was going to be _so_ dead.

"I'm err...I'm Barty," he said, as he tried to sidle past Gladys, who had manoeuvred herself to block the way, "and ermm this is..._Cecil_...he's six months old..." he finished, smiling desperately, trying to ignore the funny gravelly noise, as the Dark Lord ground his teeth in rage.

"How lovely," Gladys simpered. "Hasn't he got an adorable pouty face," she cooed at top volume, going back to tickling the Dark Lord's cheek. Barty looked round frantically, as the Dark Lord began to mutter evil threats under his breath; maybe he could get away with cursing the old bat. The nearby couple grinned at him, before moving on. The young family of the little girl parked themselves nearby, their youngest in his push chair screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Is he a bit colicky?" she asked. "My Andrew had the colic something shocking when he was a baby. Poor little man...made him so uncomfortable, you know."

Barty grimaced in a way he hoped conveyed sympathy, though he suspected he just looked constipated.

"Oh yes," Gladys continued, blissfully unaware how close she was to having her fingers bitten off by an enraged Dark Lord, "Gripe water, that's what he needs. A big table spoon in his next bottle, and he'll feel much more the thing...won't you, little man," she cooed.

"I've got to, ermm...go now," he said, his mind frantically scrambling for a suitable excuse, "Cecil...ermm...needs his err...nappy changing." His chuckle sounded slightly desperate, even to his ears. The Dark Lord went rigid with fury so intense, Barty was surprised the cute bunny ears didn't spontaneously combust.

Gladys nodded understandingly. "Has ickle baby done a poo-poo?" she simpered, giving the Dark Lord's cheek a final pinch. Barty gave her a last sickly grin, and fled back the way they'd come, diving for the safety of the door and the maze of passages and cabins. Back in their cabin, he leant against the door with a huge sigh of relief.

"_Cecil? _CECIL!?" the Dark Lord shouted, in an awful shrieking hiss. "Was that the best you could come up with?" he screamed, as he thrashed in the baby carrier. "Get me out of this thing, I've had enough, do you hear, _enough!_"

The resulting struggle as the Dark Lord tried to thrash his way out of the harness, fighting Barty's efforts to free him, was both nasty and short leaving Barty with deep scratches on the back of a hand, and a patch of bleeding scalp where Voldemort had succeeded in pulling a clump of hair out by the roots.

Sucking the back of his hand, he watched the Dark Lord warily as he sat in the middle of the narrow bunk-bed, sipping his potion from a spouty cup, an unpleasant combination of snake venom and human blood. Still furious, the Dark Lord's red eyes blazed with anger. "We are never going to speak of this again," he hissed, taking another sip from the spouty cup, "understood?" He glared, narrowing his eyes dangerously. Barty nodded frantically.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**

Here is Chapter 2 of Carrow's latest outing for your enjoyment, beta'd by Jacobus-Minoris as usual :-)

This was originally the back end of the first chapter...untill I got bogged down and started tearing my hair out over it, a not uncommon occurrence with fan fiction. I'm honestly surprised I'm not bald by now. So yes, I chopped it in two and it continued to grow untill it became this...

There's even more research in this one, particularly relating to English Heritage. They're like a specialist mafia dealing in listed buildings who come round to your home with menaces ...I ended up on a solicitor's website and a sort of Listed Building survivors' group...and it's really scary. If you buy a listed house and the previous owners did something like change the windows without getting the proper planning consent then you are liable for their replacement and potentially could end up in jail...

Anyway enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

If the standoff between his men and Tim's...entourage had been unpleasant and dangerous, then the journey to the "rendezvous point" had been cramped, uncomfortable and deathly silent, the professional soldiers reluctantly sharing the normally fairly spacious FV432 with a group of... agents... mercenaries? They still weren't sure, who had basically commandeered both them and their transport.

They had ended up near an abandoned house up in the hills, surrounded on two sides by dense woods and rocky outcrops, and on the south side by a meadow which drifted down to the local river. Nearby, the tinkling gush of a fast flowing stream could be heard. The building was far too small to be a farm; a shepherd's dwelling maybe? When they checked the insides, there had only been two rooms, full of abandoned furniture and personal belongings, as if someone had left in a hurry. Timothy had looked around with a strange frown on his face, Granger ghosting after him, equally grim. Whatever it was that bothered them they wouldn't say.

He and his men carefully explored the surrounding woods, looking for signs of human activity, but there weren't any. Even the local wildlife seemed sparse, with only the occasional bird singing among the trees. The odd silence was eerie and uncomfortable, unnerving even, so it was with great relief that they returned to the small cottage.

He found his brother had set up a watch around the place with his strange mixed-bag of people. Ex-military and civilians trained to work together, he idly thought, obviously drilled until they could fight in their sleep, each one knowing exactly what their role within the group was. An unpleasant thought niggled its way to the forefront of his mind; was someone trying to put together their own private army? He dismissed the idea as utterly ridiculous.

Matthew eyed his brother's back, as he spoke in low tones to his second, Wulfric, and the child soldier. Something very strange was going on, he thought, as his brother efficiently organised his people to scout out the local area.

So now they were waiting for the mysterious Mr Carrow to make his appearance. Maybe then he would get to the bottom of who this monster precisely was, and maybe he'd even get the opportunity to tell him exactly what he thought of people who tortured and psychologically maimed his little brother.

"So, baby brother," he asked Timothy warily, "what the hell have you got yourself involved in?"

Timothy glared at him as he stirred sugar into his coffee. Magic had proven itself to be good for more than removing trashed APC's from roads and flash-frying hostiles, and so Fitch, his second, and the rest of the squad were busily enjoying hot food and, best of all, steaming mugs of tea for the first time in several days, the only high point so far to their unexpected side-trip.

"As I keep telling you, Matthew," Timothy replied stiffly, "I'm a secretary. Mr Carrow's personal secretary, to be precise."

The professional soldiers burst into cynical laughter. "Yeah, right," said Fitch, "I was there for the paintball piss-up. Personal assassin, more like."

Timothy went pink. "I sort proble..."

"Assassin?" Wulfric asked suddenly. "So what happened then? He won't tell us at all," he pointed at the embarrassed Timothy, "something about not being up to his brother's standards, or some such..."

Matthew and the squaddies stared at their red-faced nemesis. "It was more like he hunted us," Matthew said slowly. "It was pretty embarrassing."

"Yep," Fitch agreed, "he really caught us on the hop...it was like a cross between a ninja and Errol Flynn. Very disconcerting when you've got a hangover."

Wulfric grinned broadly at Timothy. "You got carried away and just had fun for once, didn't you?" he asked, laughing.

Timothy glared, his face practically glowing. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I sort problems out for Mr Carrow, but he is quite capable of removing people himself without any assistance from me. I am only his apprentice after all."

"So he's teaching you to be like himself?" Matthew said slowly. "And what about Granger? Is he teaching her to be like himself too?"

Granger looked up from where she was checking the mini-gun over with the assistance of Juno, her eyes chilly and calculating.

Timothy glared at his brother. "Ms Granger is on her Summer Internship at the moment, and I can assure you it is all quite legitimate."

Granger nodded, still glaring at Matthew. "It took me ages to persuade Mr Carrow too, but definitely worth it. I've learnt so much the past few weeks, so I don't want anybody to spoil it." She glared with narrowed eyes.

Matthew stared, not quite believing was he was hearing. He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind; what could he possibly say? Instead he turned back to his little brother. "I'm not liking this, I'm really not. You remember that conversation with Dad? The one about that job vacancy at that accountancy place, well, you should have taken him up on it..." He dragged his fingers through his close cropped hair. "You're my little brother...and the things you're getting mixed up with..."

"Matthew, I appreciate your concern, but really...this isn't the time or place for this conversation," Timothy said through gritted teeth. "I have no desire for another job, and frankly, if I tried, I suspect Mr Carrow would stalk me... probably with his pet tiger."

"Pet tiger?" Matthew asked, but Timothy ignored him, drinking his coffee and turning his attention to where some of the squaddies were busily trying to persuade Juno and Athena to let them have a closer look at the proto-plasma rifles, hold them even. Matthew sighed heavily, taking in his brother's worn appearance with concern. Were those grey hairs starting to appear already, and why did that design, the stylised "I" on a skull, look so familiar?

And so the time crawled by, interrupted only by several flurries of Morse code, deftly translated by Bradely, and a false alarm as a deer came out of the trees down by the river.

The sun was low in the sky and evening was drawing in by the time the lookouts, in this case Chuddy and Athena, spotted him.

"Sir," Chuddy announced, "movement by the river. I think it might be Mr Carrow, and the, err, vampires...sir," he grimaced still not getting used to the idea of such supernatural creatures, and still awkward discussing them in day-to-day conversation, particularly in circumstances this serious.

The squaddies snorted with barely suppressed mirth. Timothy ignored them as he heard the rustles of the coven members arriving. Moving with inhuman grace, they were clothed from head to toe in special protective suits. They were intimidating figures, dripping with weapons, their faces obscured by gilded masks in the form of grinning skulls, apart from one. The small female, no taller than five feet, had brown hair that looked as if it had been roughly hacked off with a knife. Hissing, eyes glowing red, and fangs fully visible, she made a bee-line for Timothy.

The squaddies stared, their body language tense, weapons held close.

"Ahh, Interrogator Faulks," the one apparently in charge wheezed, his voice old and dusty, though his movements were just as graceful and agile as the others. "Tis good to see thee and the others in good health...and thou hast gained some waifs and strays on your travels, I see..." He stared pointedly at the squaddies, who stirred uneasily as the masked figures drifted towards them, their movements unnaturally fluid and loose.

"Methuselah, I trust your hunt went well," Timothy replied, smiling slightly as he watched the vampires' antics.

"Indeed," Methuselah wheezed, "our hunting has been _quite_ fruitful."

"Carrow's here," Chuddy announced from where he watched the meadow in front of the cottage through his binoculars. Fitch sidled over to see what the fuss was about, pulling out his own binoculars. "What the hell?" he breathed, jerking back, startled.

"That," Chuddy smirked, "is Mr Carrow."

Fitch stared at him in disbelief, before turning back to his binoculars. "That's not physically possible...what the hell is _that_? It must weigh a ton..." he trailed off.

"Powered exo-armour, weighing in at just over three tons, actually," Timothy added, coming forward to watch his employer's approach, "similar to a small family car, in fact."

Fitch stared at him.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," Chuddy laughed, "looks like an old T-54."

Timothy looked up from his hunt for a blood-pop for Natasha. "That's not going to end well," he muttered, carefully un-wrapping the sweet for the little vampire. Handing it over to the eagerly hissing Natasha, he drifted over to watch the stupidity, or desperation, unfold, just in time to see the T-54 attempt to run Carrow over.

The power-armoured Carrow easily leapt out of the way in a move which caused much exclaiming among the squaddies. The bellows in High Gothic clearly expressed Carrow's opinion on such uncouth behaviour, and precisely what he was going to do to such uncivilised barbarians, before it descended into an inhuman howl of rage.

Timothy tsked to himself. "Looks like those idiots have just dug their own graves," he commented cheerfully.

Wulfric snorted with laughter. "So, how many minutes? I'm betting my last chocolate bar they only manage three and a half."

"One minute, forty seven seconds," Granger commented. "I've got a fruity flapjack resting on it."

The others piled in with their suggestions, as they eagerly watched the unfair fight, Timothy shaking his head in amusement.

The old tank tried to manoeuvre round for another go, but Carrow was furious, and the tank was distinctly slow and lumbering. He easily vaulted up it, ignoring the pathetic attempts at swatting him off with the main gun. Jamming his fingers in the gap between the turret and the body of the tank, he heaved.

"There goes the turret," Chuddy crowed.

"Just like a giant Frisbee," Wulfric commented, snorting with laughter.

"Ah, look at that...like rats out of a sinking ship," Juno commented, as the unfortunate tank crew tried to escape the furious Astartes.

"They'd be better," Granger commented as she watched, "if they hunkered down as far as they could, and tried to get him jammed in the opening...then they could set off a hand grenade..." she said thoughtfully, as Carrow grabbed a crew member by his head and crushed the unfortunate's skull to a pulp, while smashing another one sideways with a sickening crack, the limp body falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

"It wouldn't kill him, though," Wulfric said.

"No," Granger said, "but it would slow him down a bit, and then someone else _might_ be able to finish him off...maybe..." she idly speculated, as Carrow leapt off the tank, an impossible trajectory, and landed squarely on the back of the third with a nasty crunch. The last man managed to get a further three yards before Carrow lunged forward, a blur of motion, grabbing his leg. The man screamed, terrified beyond reason, desperately reaching towards the apparent sanctuary of the small cottage...until Carrow tore him limb from limb in a wash of gore.

The armoured giant looked around, its body language almost _disappointed_, Matthew thought with fascinated horror.

"One minute, forty two seconds," Chuddy announced. "Looks like Granger wins again." He grinned in amusement.

Matthew blinked. These people were mad, utterly mad. "Looks like we've fallen down the rabbit hole," Fitch murmured by his elbow. Matthew really couldn't help but agree.

oOo

Timothy straightened his back and settled his sword as he approached Carrow carefully, making sure to keep in the man's field of vision. Splattered in gore from the unfortunate tank crew, and with the odd new scratch to his armour, Carrow cut an intimidating figure as he stalked around the APC, eyeing it from every angle, looking it over carefully before finally climbing up, and peering inside through the top hatch.

"If you get stuck," Timothy commented, "you can wear it home."

The armoured giant twisted slightly, giving him a glare over his shoulder pad, or Timothy thought he did; there was just something about his body language. Carrow went back to his investigation, leaving a trail of gory handprints, and, Timothy winced, a large dent. Probably best not to mention that to Matthew; what the mind didn't know, the heart couldn't grieve, and all that. Hopefully, it would just get written off as battle damage.

He sighed heavily as another gory smear appeared across the front. Flicking his wand out, Timothy strode forward, intent on solving the problem. Grabbing one of Carrow's enormous gauntlets, he quickly and efficiently cast a series of scourgify charms, clearing the remains of pulped brain from the crevices of the armoured fingers. Satisfied with his work, he let it go. "Now the other one," he demanded.

Carrow silently complied, something about his stance suggesting amusement.

"Where is its armament?" he asked, his usual growl oddly distorted by the vox caster of his helmet.

Timothy looked up from his cleaning. "It's a personnel carrier really, there's a machine gun on top, and as I understand it, it's got smoke launchers on the front...I think..."

Carrow grumbled to himself. "Pathetic, and it's not armoured properly, it's far too flimsy." He glared at the vehicle as if it had personally offended him. "And the original owners of this ridiculous death trap?" He gave the FV432 a gentle shove, causing it to rock back and forth alarmingly.

Timothy nodded his head towards the cottage. "Why don't you come and meet them?"

Matthew stood half way between the cottage and the FV432, his rifle cradled deceptively casually. Behind him, the others watched cautiously from the cottage, keeping watch from the windows and doorway, Timothy's personnel waiting outside nearby, barely hiding their amusement.

Carrow stalked towards them, light-footed and graceful, eyeing the unfamiliar faces with considerable interest, the skulls of his chatelaine clinking quietly together, the remaining light softly gleaming off the gilded decoration and chains. He circled around the wincing and nervous...what was he? PDF? One of the local armies, definitely. His insignia denoted his rank, and that he was most likely the one in charge of the strangers, if the rank insignia of Ancient Terran armies worked anything like he was used to. He came to a halt in front of the spooked man, whose only visible reaction was to tighten his grip on his weapon. Impressive.

Matthew glared up at the eyepieces of the monster, wincing at the teeth aching whine of the armour, desperately trying to hide his nervousness, and loath though he was to admit it, his fear. The giant reached up, clasped its helmet with both hands and twisted; with a click and a hiss of escaping air, the helmet was lifted away to reveal...

Matthew's eyes widened in horror; this wasn't a normal person wearing giant armour, this was a giant, wearing armour tailored to fit, an avatar of violence and destruction. He gazed up into the greenest eyes he'd ever seen in his life, eyes full of child-like curiosity and utterly ruthless cunning, and behind it all...rage...rage, unending, unquenchable, desperate to break free...here was someone who had been made with the express purpose of exterminating ordinary soldiers by the hundreds...by the thousands...here was his ultimate predator...

Carrow turned to his apprentice with a questioning look.

Timothy shrugged. "I coerced the Corporal and his squad into allying themselves with me."

Carrow smiled indulgently down at his young apprentice, laying a hand approvingly on his shoulder; Timothy was coming along so well. "I always recommend execution of some of the less useful ones if you are met with too many objections." He grinned slightly as the PDF startled at the sound of his voice. "The trick is to choose the...second to least useful; it always leaves the others wondering who will be next." His grin turned increasingly smug, as the soldiers visibly paled under Timothy's speculative gaze.

Matthew shook himself out of his daze as the monster stalked past towards the cottage, the ground vibrating slightly under his considerable weight. What the hell...he stared after the monster...and then at his little brother. Tim just raised an eyebrow at him, and strode after his...boss...master...one hand on the hilt of his sword. Matthew stared after him for a moment, before sprinting after him.

"Our target is a settlement five klom north-east of our current location," the giant was growling when Matthew caught up, "and it is in dire need of cleansing. I think it likely to be the epicentre of the local infestation, and the source of all the signs of taint that we have come across. Now, I and the Coven will scout the way, the...personnel carrier can follow us, while Interrogator Faulks and his people will protect the rear..."

"What?" Fitch snapped. "You can't just..."

Matthew silenced him with a wave of his hand. Glaring up at the menacing figure of Carrow, he snarled, "We'll go with you and your...people, if only to keep you out of trouble."

"Corporal," Fitch hissed behind him, but Matthew waved him quiet again.

"Just as long as you understand one thing. They're _my_ squad, _my_ people and _my_ responsibility," Matthew jabbed a finger into Carrow's lower chest, "they're not for _you_ to order around. Understood?"

Carrow smiled like a shark, his eyes hard and predatory. Matthew felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he shifted slightly unconsciously, preparing for the possibility of violence. Carrow turned and stalked away, chains clinking and shifting.

"Corporal," Fitch asked, "this is way above our pay grade, isn't it?"

Matthew stared after the retreating Carrow. "Yes...yes, I rather think it is," he muttered, "has Ed got that bloody camera on him?"

"I think so," Fitch replied with a frown.

Nodding distractedly, Matthew turned to his second. "Get Ed to take as many pictures as he can," he muttered to him, "all of his film stock, and slap him if he moans about it. I want this all documented."

oOo

"Doesn't this look horribly familiar?" Wulfric muttered as he stared at some of the repulsive luminescent graffiti that had been daubed over the roadside wall. Timothy frowned nervously, and re-checked his weapons; help was a radio away now that Matthew and Carrow had split off to approach the town from different directions. "I have a nasty feeling things are going to get extremely messy," he muttered back as they continued their cautious approach, the others strung along behind them.

Narrowing his eyes, Timothy signalled to the others to stop and keep to the shadows. There in the empty street appeared to be a child, alone, shuffling along in what appeared to be a thin nightdress. He carefully looked around; he couldn't see anyone else, and so far, apart from the foul graffiti, this little place seemed comparatively untouched by the surrounding chaos. Memories of that cabal of sorcerers, of those people, men, women and children all touched by something terrible and corrupt flashed through his mind.

"Romania," Wulfric quietly murmured behind him. Timothy nodded, there was something just...off about the way this child was walking, an aimless shuffle that meandered across the road, arms hanging limply by its sides.

Well, there was only one way to find out, wasn't there? Timothy signalled them to move forward slowly and carefully. As they got closer they became increasingly aware of an odour, fetid and rotten. Their pace slowed even further as they cautiously checked doorways and windows as they passed, their night vision goggles turning everything a garish pink monochrome. From the long and matted hair it appeared to be a girl child, her night dress a man's shirt, so large on her slight frame it hung past her knees, the sleeves rolled up so she could use her hands...

...but her fingers were a muddled twisted mess, her legs utterly filthy with dark stains running down their length...and she stunk, worse than an abattoir on a hot day. Timothy grimaced, trying to breathe quietly through his mouth. Considering the last time they were in a place afflicted such as this, it would probably be a good idea to just shoot her in the back of the head and have done with it.

Silently raising his Browning, he took careful aim.

A yelp a few yards away betrayed the presence of Bradeley as he stubbed his toe, again. Timothy inwardly cursed and hoped as the silence of the night returned like a stifling blanket, but it was not to be.

The child froze...and began to turn...

Wulfric hissed quietly in shock behind him as he took in the child's face...or what was left of it. Her eyes were gone, was the first thing Timothy noticed, but below the gaping bloody holes, the lower half her face appeared to have been ripped loose, white bone clearly visible, the remains of her jaw flopping uselessly on her chest, tongue lolling, blood and froth streaked down the front of the shirt. But the worst bit, in Timothy's mind, was the way the loose flesh seemed to wriggle and heave...it was maggots. Her face was being eaten by maggots.

Tasting bile in his throat, he took the shot, a sharp crack in the silence, and caught her cleanly between the eyes. She rocked back and forth on her feet, seemingly bewildered, so he shot her again.

She slowly crumpled to the floor in a ragged pathetic little heap, dislodged maggots squirming in the road by her still form.

"She was probably already dead," Wulfric murmured behind him. Timothy grimaced, swallowing thickly; it still didn't make it any better.

"We'd better get on," he muttered back grimly, "before we get caught by any stragglers attracted to the noise."

oOo

The closer they got to the rendezvous point Carrow had insisted on, the louder the sounds of fighting, the crackle of gun fire, shouts and yells.

"Your brother get ambushed again?" Wulfric asked as he shot a crawling thing in the head, carefully stepping around its trailing intestines.

Timothy sighed heavily. "He does seem to attract them, doesn't he? Shall we go and rescue him?"

Normally the Town Square would have been a pleasant place; roughly rectangular, cobbled, with a row of trees along one side, surrounded by buildings of various vintages, not one younger than a hundred years old. It would have been a nice place to sit on a summer afternoon at a cafe table with a cup of coffee, just watching the world go by. At the moment, though...

...it was a scene of chaos and carnage illuminated by strings of multicoloured bulbs that criss-crossed the square. The FV-432 acted as a mobile fortress at one end as Matthew and his squad on top fighting off the horde of moaning, hissing, deformed creatures that threatened to swarm them.

Timothy clicked his radio. "Delta one-tree receiving,"

"'bout time you got here, Purgatus-secundus, over," the crackling reply came.

"Like any assistance, over?" Timothy asked smirking, as his brother used his rifle-butt to batter an overly inquisitive tentacle thing.

"Don't feel you have to hold back, Purgatus-secundus, there's plenty to go round, over," his brother's voice crackled out of the radio, sounding out of breath and annoyed.

"How very generous of you, out." Timothy grinned. "You heard him, people."

Granger gleefully moved forward, the mini-gun at the ready. Spraying the swarming crowd of broken bodies in short efficient bursts, she rapidly cleared a space, Juno and Athena moving up to cover her flanks with bursts of super heated plasma fire. The nearest shambling figures changed their focus, at first confused, but then increasingly angry at this new intrusion on their territory, throwing themselves at Timothy and his people as they began to make their way towards the besieged APC. The use of rifles became harder, and increasingly they turned to their blades...bayonets, swords, the butts of their rifles...as the creatures pressed in closer trying to swamp them, split them up, overwhelming with their rotten stench, their empty sockets and mutilated limbs, their liquidising flesh hanging loosely...

A bellow of fury, more like a physical force than a noise, echoed around the square, rattling windows, as something large and brutal bludgeoned its way into the press of bodies, snarling prayers of purity, tossing broken bodies into the air, the vampires following in Carrow's wake like silent murderous shadows.

The press around Timothy and his entourage lessened, to their relief, as the creatures scrambled to deal with this new threat, even as it scythed through them like some prehistoric god brought to life, smiting them down with righteous fury.

They made it to the FV432 as Matthew's squad began to scramble down to take care of the stragglers. Circling the vehicle and spreading out, they quickly cleared their end of the square, taking down maimed stragglers with bullets to the head, beheading twitching scrabbling things that lay on the cobbles.

Taking the opportunity, Timothy pulled out a Black Russian for a quiet smoke in the shelter of the APC, jerking slightly as Annie and Caroline sidled past him, intent on joining Granger in her hunt for live creatures for summary execution.

"Tim," a voice asked quietly. He turned to find his brother, pale and grimy, slime streaked down his front, standing there. Frankly he didn't look much better himself. "Fitch got bitten by one of those...things. We've done our best...but it's obviously not a normal wound. I was wondering if..."

"I'll come and have a look," Timothy replied carefully stubbing out his cigarette and storing it. Fitch had been made as comfortable as they could on top of the FV432, his normally dark complexion ashen and sweating, his eyes feverish.

"Bloody stupid it was," he muttered through gritted teeth, "little kid in the middle of the road all alone...no parents...approached him...freaking zombie...thing...face like a..." He gulped and swallowed screwing his eyes up in pain. "It_ bit_ me...why didn't we get trained for zombie attacks?"

"Good question," Timothy murmured soothingly as he gently peeled back the goopey stinking bandage on Fitch's forearm. "When we get out of here, you'll be able to write the book on it."

Fitch chuckled weakly, before seeming to doze off.

Timothy grimaced as he examined the wound. Green and oozing, it stunk, red streaks of infection spreading up to the unfortunate man's elbow.

"We've done what we could with what we've got," Matthew heaved a stuttering sigh, "human bites are nasty, but this...it's less than half an hour old."

Timothy nodded his head, pulling out his medi-kit. "It's not natural, Mattie. I'm not even sure Wizarding medi-potions will do much. We might have to amputate his arm...or failing that, shoot him in the head," he said as he poured a concentrated sterilizing potion on to a fresh lint pad, "but we'll save that as a last resort." He gave his brother a reassuring smile.

Matthew grimaced, not at all happy with the suggestion; but what could he do in this situation? He hated to admit it, but he was currently so far out of his depth he might as well be trying to sail across the Atlantic in an inflatable dinghy, and so he watched his brother wrapping a fresh bandage around his Second's arm, coat buttons glinting in the multi-coloured illumination...the buttons...the skull and "I"...the massive crater and all those bodies, the destroyed mausoleum...he glanced over the corpse strewn square, almost groaning. Now it all made sense.

Timothy looked up at him with concern. "It's highly likely that a bite like this could spread the infection that causes _that,_" Timothy continued jabbing a finger at the shredded bodies littering the ground nearby. "Better dead than _that_...well...we'll see...but we will have to decide soon, because this infection is moving quickly."

A giant gauntlet appeared, crackling with unnatural light; there was a sudden pulse, and it was gone, leaving behind the scent of ozone and a faded memory of a distant summer's day. Fitch's face relaxed and his breathing became less laboured as he drifted into genuine sleep.

"Or we could just do that," Timothy commented, smiling up at Carrow."Thank-you," he said, gently patting the large man's arm.

"Yeah, thank you," Matthew said, giving Carrow a small smile, clasping his huge gauntlet quickly.

"I'm taking it," Timothy said, "that you've currently run out of things to kill."

Carrow's slightly bewildered body language turned to extreme disgust as he hunched his shoulders, a strange gesture in power armour. "Absolutely pathetic, no stamina at all," he growled, almost whining. "I suspect, however, that they were merely cannon fodder...for something else."

"We've still got the rest of the town to explore...and cleanse," Timothy said.

"Wonderful," Carrow sneered, "more cannon fodder."

Movement in the doorway of a nearby building caught his attention, his auspex sending targeting reticules flickering into his field of view. Drawing his plasma pistol, he stalked forward.

Shouldering past the frail remains of double doors, he executed the slimy squirming grey things that lurked there with a series of plasma blasts. Looking round carefully for more targets, he found he had entered the foyer of a...theatre...or the remains of one...the shattered remains of ticket booths...dark passages leading off...stairs leading up...cracked and decaying gilded plaster work...and over it all an aura of sickness, of utter wrongness which permeated this place like a psykic fog...

A tiny sound, something skidding on metal, barely perceptible to even his senses caused him to freeze.

He was not alone.

He sidled carefully towards the sound, up the shattered remains of low stairs which cracked and groaned under his weight, and into...he carefully looked round. This had been the actual theatre with its rows of red upholstered seats and the dark remains of balconies climbing up behind him...box seats...the empty cavern of the stage...all of it covered with rubble, plaster from the ornate ceiling which had caved in revealing shadowed beams and in places the night sky. The tragic ruins of the local town's culture, a sad depressing sight he had seen repeated hundreds if not thousands of times.

There it was again, something shifting...something...he dodged out of the way, rolling across the rubble of plaster and seating, springing back to his feet, as something large and dark and pulsating with psykic contamination launched itself from the gloom of the rafters, crashing to the floor in a swelter of many legs, its weight crushing the rubble underneath.

The thing, a heaving sac of...a faceless worm, its sensory feelers and...oral sphincter surrounded by a mane of bristling hair, its segmented body supported by a multitude of jointed spiderlike legs...

Carrow circled slowly to the left, his senses on overdrive as his mind processed every tiny movement this...abomination made, darting in with his sword at every opportunity. The creature did its best to follow, its heavy body swaying as it moved clumsily, trying to attack this annoying ant that harried it at every possibility.

It became clearer, as Carrow circled, that this beast's body was transparent, its internal organs pulsing obscenely in the green glow of his auspex display...and then something twitched. A small hand pressed up against the creature's flank, and his vision rearranged itself. There were people in there, pale, distorted, crushed up one against another, more and more twisted and maimed the further along the thing's flank he looked, until...he curled his lip in disgust. The abomination had to die.

He darted in, his power-sword crackling with energy, testing the defences, the limitations of this foul worm, slashing and thrusting at the exposed fleshy sides, hacking through chitinous limbs in oozes of goopy ichor. The creature hissed and moaned in pain and rage as it struggled to get at its attacker, thrashing and straining against the walls of the building that caged it in. Stones and mortar trickled down in places as the walls cracked under the strain, but still the building held firm.

Carrow narrowed his eyes as he dodged and parried a stabbing limb; if he stayed here, the unnatural creature would probably try and crush him, which would be annoying. And that was if the building didn't collapse first; time to lure it outside.

A ball of warp-fyre had the thing spasming in anguish, a bubbling hiss its scream of torment, disgorging the twisted and maimed remnants of people in a stinking slimy puddle.

The creatures staggered to their feet, disoriented and vacant, their eye sockets bleeding holes. Scenting around themselves, they were drawn to the threat to their "mother" as Carrow continued to harry and harass the creature. Stumbling forward, they began to crowd through sheer numbers.

Within the confines of his helmet, Carrow grinned; this was just getting more and more interesting. He sent a series of fire-balls through the crowd, scything into them with his power sword, the soft flesh and scrabbling limbs of his would-be attackers powerless against his assault.

Sensing the death of its "children", the worm reared up and lunged forward, striking at him, attempting to swallow him whole. Carrow dodged easily, his power sword leaping up, maiming the facial orifice of the foul thing and lopping through sensory feelers. The worm jerked back, thrashing in pain and struck again, trying to throw its bulk at him despite the small confines of the old theatre, thrashing against the already weakened walls of the hollowed out building, attempting to gain purchase to launch itself at this deadly threat.

The roof above them began to groan and creak alarmingly as it shifted under the strain, pieces of plaster showering down.

Carrow darted forward, ignoring the grasping, biting creatures. Seeing an opportunity, he dug his power sword deep into the side of the worm and heaved it down the flank of the creature, opening up its side in a huge gaping wound, ichor and half-digested people flopping onto the cold concrete floor in a sudden wash of fluid, pitiful mewling creatures that flopped and moaned and cried for a quick death. Carrow paid them no heed as he leapt out of the way of the worm's agonised thrashing.

The roof gave a final groan, unable to take the stresses and strains it was being subjected to, showering down on the dying worm. Carrow darted back out into the town square.

Outside, his people battled the corrupted creatures that had managed to slip past him, backed up by the squad of PDF...soldiers; he still wasn't comfortable with the idea of nation states. One thing he was very clear about, though, was that the older Faulks brother was just as impressive, had just as much potential as his sibling. Now, if he could persuade him he really wanted a change of employer...maybe he should just steal them. It had worked with Wulfric.

The worm struggled free from the heap of wreckage, wheezing, trailing a glistening path of slime and maimed people who limply struggled and thrashed like dying fish.

Carrow barred his teeth in a feral grin; time for the death blow. Pulling his force-staff from its place at his back, he raised it before him, bale-fyre already gathering around the skull and dripping down the shaft to his gauntlets, where it played around his fingers, before looping back up the shaft. The pressure behind his eyes increased until it became a blinding pain, but he bore it stoically, allowing the strength of the fire of the Emperor's Breath build around him, basking in its radiant purity...

...and then he let it go. The psykic pressure wave nearly drove him to his knees, but Carrow stood firm bracing himself in the face of this virtually invisible maelstrom...

...and then it was over. The silence of the night returned, nearby an animal called, a fox maybe, a few birds twittered disturbed from their sleep before falling silent once more.

The worm was no more; in its place lay a sizable mound of shrivelled, blackened skeletons, pieces of charred flesh still clinging on in places. Carrow examined it curiously, delicately stepping over shrivelled corpses, removing his helmet as he went; interestingly, the mound was shaped much like the worm itself...

"What the bloody, fucking hell?!" a furious and rather shaken voice bellowed.

Carrow lifted an eyebrow in amusement as he turned and walked back to the others. What were they getting upset about now? His people were busily extricating themselves from whatever shelter they'd taken, brushing themselves down, checking their weapons, wary of any potential attack. He'd trained them well; in a few years time they would be formidable.

"You could have given us some bloody warning," one of the vampires snarled. Some of the others sniggered.

Timothy came over, stepping round the dead, eyeing him carefully, for what Carrow could only guess. "Did you enjoy yourself?" Timothy asked patronisingly, as he pulled out a cigarette.

Carrow snorted to himself, watching the soldiers pulling themselves to their feet. They appeared to be shaken, but none the worse for wear; none had soiled themselves, none were gibbering wrecks...obviously the people of Ancient Terra were made sterner stuff. He smiled in approval.

"We aren't finished here yet," he announced, "we need to cleanse this entire place. As our resources are rather limited, our best option is fire."

"What?" Matthew asked bewildered.

Carrow tilted his head considering the smaller man for a moment. "Consider it in these terms...the people here were sick with a highly contagious...plague. Even though they are dead, they are still a potential hazard for those who are healthy, so the simplest way to prevent the spread of this plague is fire... cleansing, purifying fire. Do you understand?" Carrow asked.

Matthew looked around the scene of utter carnage, the shattered remains of the square, twisted blackened lumps that used to be people, the ruined opera house, now little more than a heap of rubble...

He swallowed the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble up and overwhelm him. Nodding, he looked up at Carrow. "We've got a can of petrol that I'm willing to let you have."

"Petrol?" Carrow asked puzzled.

"Yeah," Matthew said, "you know...fuel..."

Carrow turned, and stared rather pointedly at Timothy.

Timothy took a drag of his Black Russian. "Petrol, gasoline," he tried, receiving blank looks from the giant man. "Promethium," he sighed.

"Promethium," Carrow grinned, "yes, that will do very nicely. If you've seen any more in any of these buildings, we can put that to good use also."

"Promethium?" Matthew hissed at his brother. Timothy just shrugged, "Carrowism," he muttered round his cigarette.

"Right," Matthew said, watching one of his squad run back with the spare fuel can.

oOo

It had taken several hours to make sure that the most heavily infected parts of the town were thoroughly doused. Fortunately, they'd found what appeared to be the local petrol station, and had managed to siphon off enough fuel to do the job.

And now it was alight, a giant pyre to the senseless and strange deaths of so many people.

"You know," Matthew said to no one in particular, "come tomorrow this place is going to be crawling with UN observers and all sorts."

Carrow looked at him oddly. "Why? It is merely a fire, one of many I'm sure, completely unremarkable in the context of a war-zone." He was quite put out as all the ordinary people turned and looked at him as if he'd said something supremely stupid.

"That huge crater at the Victory Mausoleum, all those bodies...that was _you_," Matthew said exasperated. "We spent three weeks nursing UN observers, weapons specialists and all sorts round the place. Nice hand prints in the gun barrel, by the way." He gave Carrow a sarcastic double thumbs-up. "I've no idea what you did to that APC though."

Timothy coughed guiltily.

Carrow stared at Matthew for a moment, before closing his eyes with a growl. "I'm...used to larger wars than this...something like that would quickly have been destroyed, swept away by shifting battle fronts..." He sighed heavily, watching the burning town, the flames leaping into the sky as it burned out of control, a towering cloud of smoke that would be visible for miles around.

"We are done here." Carrow turned to Timothy and the others. "Ready your port-keys for transport." He looked thoughtfully at the soldiers. "If ever any of you desire a change of employer, talk to Interrogator Faulks. I would be... happy to have you." He gave them what he felt to be an encouraging smile. It was strange how they looked rather pale, he thought, as he activated the port-key.

"Whoa... teleportation," one of the soldiers whispered appreciatively, as the vampires all disappeared in quick succession.

"Hey... Wulfric, right?" Matthew called to the only one dressed in sensible colours. "Why are you in khaki, and they're not?"

Wulfric and Timothy exchanged a look, Timothy shaking his head in exasperation.

"I can't possibly wear black," Wulfric said, horrified, "I'm a soft autumn."

OOOOOO

"What do you mean, they wouldn't believe you?" Timothy asked in annoyance, as he negotiated a particularly tricky mini roundabout, made worse by the uncompromising bulk of the Hummer.

Wulfric looked out the window a moment. "Well, you know... they took some convincing that I hadn't in fact decided to run away or jump ship or something." He sighed heavily. "Fortunately for me, someone had actually come forward and reported witnessing Carrow kidnapping me," he shook his head in exasperation, "I mean, there were witnesses and everything... do people really find Carrow doing something like that that unbelievable?"

"Probably," Timothy said, grimacing, "he's one of those things that have to be experienced to be really understood."

Wulfric grinned. "We're the Carrow Survivors' Club."

Timothy gave an amused huff.

"Well, to cut a long story short, they want me to spy on Carrow," Wulfric said.

Timothy stared at him incredulously, before jerking his attention back to the road as the Hummer swerved slightly.

"My thoughts exactly," Wulfric smiled tightly. "I warned them that if I did that, Carrow would know, blackmail me into being a double agent, and then use me to feed them misinformation. They were pretty patronizing about it, didn't seem to believe me about what he's like." He sighed heavily.

"So, when I got back to the Lodge, Carrow was waiting for me with that really creepy smirk of his." Wulfric scowled. "He _already _knew about the entire meeting."

"So in other words," Timothy said slowly, "he's already infiltrated the Magical division of the FBI... and they don't know."

"Exactly," Wulfric nodded.

"Wonderful," Timothy grimaced, "I suppose at least it will keep him occupied for a while."

The car-phone began to ring, an insistent chirping over the rumble of the engine.

"Deer speaking," Wulfric cheerfully announced into the phone, before falling silent, his expression becoming serious, before a smile gradually spread across his face. "Hmm, hmm...yes, sure, I'll tell him...sure...no, not long...okay, we'll see you...maybe in fifteen minutes or so...okay, bye."

Timothy had been casting him sideways looks, trying to discern the nature of the conversation, but to his frustration he could only just make out the tinny murmur of the caller; definitely female though. He sighed heavily; he was already having a bad day, first having to pick up Wulfric from the American Embassy, but worse still his dolman, his nice, comparatively plain black dolman was utterly ruined. Zombie slime didn't brush off, even when dry, and when he'd asked the house elves...it was worse than Mum's tame plumber. They'd looked at the ruined jacket and trousers with much frowning and sucking of teeth, tutting and muttering. "We's not sure this is rescue-able," they'd finally announced, "we's take...give us a week," and they'd popped away with the heavily soiled garments.

And so he was stuck wearing the horrible gold-braid smothered effort. Maybe he should wear this one for the field, and save the black one for everyday... though Chuddy's sarcasm...Timothy winced.

"So, who was that?" he asked as Wulfric replaced the handset.

"Mrs Thorpe, wanting to know how long we'll be," Wulfric grinned.

"Problems?" Timothy asked, shooting him a look.

"Well..." Wulfric drew it out, enjoying his friend's frustration, "Felix had a tantrum when his maths tutor arrived, and went and hid...hmm...the people from World of Interiors have arrived to do the, err, photo shoot..."

Timothy swore; how could he have forgotten _that?_

"Oh, it gets worse," Wulfric continued remorselessly, "Artemis has climbed into the back of their van, and is refusing to move...Felix finally appeared from wherever he was hiding to see what all the fuss is about...and Mrs Thorpe can't find Carrow."

Timothy snarled to himself. Why had he bothered to get up this morning... okay, stupid question, there'd been an overly friendly tiger lounging on his bed, and Annie and Caroline giggling at him because his hair was sticking up at the back. He put his foot down and swerved dangerously round a lorry. What gods had he angered to have a life like this?

They drew into the main courtyard of the Lodge ten minutes later, to find a number of unfamiliar cars, and a van, its back doors wide open, parked near the main entrance, a small crowd of people gathered at a safe distance nearby, watching in fascination.

Timothy snarled to himself, muttering uncharitable things about overgrown felines who'd make better rugs.

Jamming his peaked cap on firmly, he stalked over, his leather storm-coat swirling around him, a grinning Wulfric trailing in his wake. Rounding the van, he came to a halt at the sight of Artemis in the back of the van, sprawled over cases, no doubt full of delicate photographic equipment, giving the corner of one crush-proof case an experimental chew. She was making some head-way too; obviously not tiger-proof.

"Artemis," he snapped, glaring at the errant feline. Where was Carrow when you actually needed him?

Artemis looked up at the familiar voice with an expression of complete and utter innocence.

"Out of there, now," he snapped, not taken in for a moment.

Artemis oozed out of the back of the van and trotted over to delicately sniff at the tyre of the Hummer as if that was what she'd intended to do all along, shooting him a look over her shoulder.

He turned to the watching crowd, spying the errant boy lurking at the back. "Felix Trebor, to your tutor _now,_ please," Timothy growled.

Felix glared, his ears flat against his skull, tail twitching form side to side. Timothy raised an eyebrow at his young charge. "You have a year's education to catch up on, young man, no excuses. Mr Carrow expects you to equal, if not exceed, the requirements for your age group."

Huffing in annoyance, shoulders slumped, Felix turned and headed back inside, his tutor following along behind, sending Timothy a thankful grin as he went.

The fascinated stares that had previously been focused on Artemis and Felix now focused solely on him; Timothy felt his cheeks begin to heat up...gold braid, _blasted_ gold braid...pretend everything is boringly normal and soldier on...he pulled himself together.

"Hello, Timothy," a familiar voice full of amusement said.

Timothy jerked round, hiding his surprise behind his frozen mask, at the sight of Freya looking as stylish and elegant as when they had last met. "Miss Phillips-Worthington, a pleasure to see you again." He shook her hand and attempted a smile, though considering some of the winces, it didn't work.

"I'll err, just leave you to it then," Wulfric said as he sauntered past with a grin over his shoulder.

_Coward!_ Timothy thought, glaring at Wulfric's rapidly retreating back.

oOo

Exhausted but happy, Hermione pulled her bulging kit-bag out of the back of Dad's car. She'd had to leave the min-gun in the armoury back at the Lodge; such a pity, she'd got rather fond of it. At least she'd been able to bring her pistol with her...and her knife collection. Her aim was starting to get really good with the set of small throwing knives Chuddy had given her; now how upset would Mum be, if she set up a dart-board in the garage to practise?

She came to an abrupt halt by the horribly familiar red car parked by Mum's nice sober forest green fiesta. Turning, Hermione levelled an accusing glare at Dad.

"I know, I know," Dan Granger sighed, "you don't get on with your cousins, but Auntie Lindsay is your Mum's sister, and they're close, goodness knows why, and we would both really like to see something of you this summer. So please...sweetie, grit your teeth and bare it. It's only for a few days...for your Mum and me?"

Hermione sighed heavily, giving the car another look of deep loathing. "Okay, Dad," she said, adjusting the heft of her kit-bag again, "for you and Mum."

Dan grinned down at his little darling. He was definitely digging his camera out, she looked so adorable in that coal-scuttle helmet, which, being a little too large, sat slightly askew, tufts of brown curls escaping from underneath.

It was as bad as she'd been expecting, Hermione thought to herself, as she peered into the living room, her helmet clattering slightly against the door as it hung loose from its strap around her neck. Auntie Lindsay and Uncle Jack were deep in conversation with Mum as she told them a boring adult story, something to do with the surgery; which was probably hilarious if you were in your early forties and ran your own dental practice.

Sighing, she eased her way past the door. Oh, there was Zach, looking bored out of his mind...and Piper, the spoilt little girly princess, though she wasn't quite as pink and girly as last time. Obviously, Auntie Lindsay wasn't quite having her way as much over what Piper wore...oh yuck...makeup, heavily and inexpertly applied. _Oh, and she's seen me..._

"What _are_ you wearing?" Piper sneered, amusement flickering in her eyes. Zach's head snapped round as finally something interesting happened, goggling at his bookish cousin.

"Darling!" Mum bounced up and rushed over to give her a hug. "Did you have a nice time? Did Allesandor get the invitation to dinner? Yes? Oh, wonderful, and what have you done to your hair, darling?" Mum looked at the shorn remains of her curls with horror.

Hermione shrugged unapologetically. "It was annoying me, getting in the way all the time, and when we went out for a...practice run...well, it was impossible to manage, so...I just chopped it off."

"With a kitchen knife, from the looks of it! Oh, really dear," Mum ran a hand over her shorn curls, "I'll take you to the hairdressers; at least they can even it up a little."

Hermione nodded; she had, after all, taken a leaf out of Natasha's book and had taken a knife to the wretched stuff, it had been so annoying, but she'd left a single braid to hang in front of her right ear, wrapped carefully in red thread which she'd further decorated with gold coloured beads she'd carefully transfigured into skulls. If Timothy could wear his house colours, so could she.

"I'll...just take my stuff upstairs, okay?" Hermione hefted her kit bag.

Mum looked down. "Goodness, dear," she exclaimed, "looks like you've brought back more than you took. Washing in the laundry basket, remember... and aren't you hot in that coat?"

"Yes, Mum," Hermione dutifully said, looking down at her woollen great coat, "it was easier to wear it than carry it."

It was shocking just how quickly dirty washing could build up. She was certain that she'd not taken _that_ many clothes with her, but the laundry pile was beginning to say otherwise. Growling in frustration, she carefully upended the canvas kit bag over her bed, mindful of some of the more delicate bits and pieces she'd brought home with her.

Hermione surveyed the pile of belongings critically, quickly extracting the box containing her new pistol. She'd taken a leaf out of Timothy's book and liberated it from one of the fallen. With help and advice from Juno and Athena, she'd managed to get the poor rusty thing back into full working order. There was some debate over what model it was; the only thing that anyone could agree on was that it was of Russian manufacture. Putting the box in her bedside table, she locked the drawer, and then drew a warding rune on it with her own saliva. It wouldn't stop anyone magical who knew what they were about, but it would foil Piper.

Now that was better, she thought, as she began to sort out the dozen or so books she'd carefully packed at the bottom, but had somehow managed to tangle themselves with her assault vest.

"What's _that_?" Piper's shrill voice sounded behind her. "Some of this stuff really _stinks_."

Hermione turned and glared. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"

Piper stepped back, shocked at her normally passive cousin's response, but she quickly rallied. "It looks stupid anyway... boy's things," she drawled condescendingly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her lip curling in a passable imitation of one Carrow's nastier expressions.

But Piper ploughed on heedlessly. "I've got Snow Serenade Barbie," she announced smugly, holding up a pink and white frothy sparkling confection. Hermione stared at the plastic thing in disgust.

"Aren't you a little old to be playing with dolls?" Hermione asked sweetly.

Piper froze, clutching the plastic toy to her chest, eyes wide and upset, before storming from the room, nearly running her brother over, sobbing, which quickly turned into screams as she thundered down the stairs. _Typical_, Hermione huffed in annoyance, _spoilt, immature little_...

oOo

One of the World of Interiors people kept bursting into hysterical laughter, and it was really starting to get on Timothy's nerves. He'd tried to give them a quick tour of the house before letting them sort themselves out with what they were going to photograph, when, where and with what sort of equipment...but it had quickly degenerated into something else, silent, eyes glazing over at yet another room full of treasures, untouched glories, family heirlooms...only Freya seemed unaffected, stopping to admire the new pieces of fifties Italian glass Carrow had found in a cupboard somewhere and added to the collection in the Breakfast Room...the curious sculpture of found objects displayed in a wire birdcage in the Green Living Room. Timothy was unsure of the significance of the half-full matchbox or the rubber glove, but his mind enjoyed picking over the enigma. To be honest, he was beginning to find their behaviour rather annoying; they didn't seem to be as interested as Freya had assured him they would be...

...maybe they'd find the newly finished Formal Reception Room to be of some interest. Carrow had done a rather impressive job on the place...

"Mr Carrow has finished decorating a further room, if you'd like to see," he offered, feeling rather tentative, but doing his best to hide it, "just this way." He gestured to the double leaf door with the finely carved and gilded mouldings.

One of the photographers, nodded at him, his expression oddly feverish, a Polaroid camera clutched in his hands (Timothy had noted that he'd already got through several packs of films), and opened the door, slipping through, Artemis padding in after him, her hemp rope ball clutched in her jaws.

Timothy sighed, heavily turning to the others. Freya was carefully examining a still-life painting, one he believed was a traditional vanitas, an allegory, a reminder of the fleetingness and fragility of life...

...he shook himself. Several of the others were gazing up at the intricate and rather free-form plaster work of the ceiling, while another was...actually on his hands and knees, examining the carpet...Timothy blinked in surprise...and behind them...there seemed to be a rather quiet, but very intense argument going on. He sighed heavily. He had hoped that this would bear fruit, would be a good way of introducing Carrow as an upstanding member of society...

"Monty's gone awfully quiet," Freya commented from beside him, "I hope Artemis hasn't mistaken him for a new toy."

Timothy looked down, to find Freya gazing up at him, eyebrow quirked, stylishly dishevelled locks of hair drifting from her messy bun.

"Maybe he's decided to have a nap due to acute boredom," he muttered back.

Freya gave him a funny look. "Boredom? I don't think he's going to sleep for a week after this," she snorted with laughter, as she stepped through the double doors, Timothy at her heels.

The Formal Reception Room was in the newer part of the house, high ceilinged, its walls lined with elaborate panelling in the Classical style, circa 1630. At some point it had been painted; Timothy was unclear as to whether this was original or a later ancestral Potter leaving their mark on the house. The delicate shade of fern green was, in Timothy's opinion, pleasant and elegant, further enhanced by various details and mouldings being picked out with gilding. Hanging down from the ceiling with its strap-work plasterwork was a chandelier, mainly of brass, but with a smattering of cut-glass crystals. There'd been a fight between the house-elves and the cleaning ladies over them. Timothy frowned as he looked up. It wasn't particularly pretty or ornate, but it was old...when did chandeliers first come along? He sighed heavily to himself; more research.

A fireplace dominated at one end of the room, the stone insert surrounded by a massive over-mantel and surround of heavily carved oak. Green-men and exuberant foliage dominated the vaguely classical design.

The wooden floor was also a delight, parquet, a tumbling block design surrounded by an elaborate border made of multiple varieties of wood, all covered with the ubiquitous Persian carpets. Was there a Potter who hadn't gone to Persia to buy a rug, Timothy idly wondered.

The furniture was mostly contemporary to the room, Jacobean, rather lumpish and heavily carved, and re-upholstered at some point with violently coloured Berlin wool-work in slightly shabby condition; most of it was highly floral in nature with the odd butterfly or bird, except for one chair that would be forever cursed with a basket of kittens, one of which was patting at a passing butterfly, and thereby proving that wealth and high social-station did not guarantee good taste.

A curio cabinet stood against one wall, the proper sort with the mirrored interior and marquetry scenes depicting various Classical myths on the doors. Carrow had filled it with a particularly adventurous Potter's collection of Chinese porcelain and carved jade. The drawers, when he'd investigated, held cardboard boxes of netsuke, carefully labelled fossils and several biscuit tins filled with pieces of broken pottery and teseri.

More family portraits hung on the walls, watching disapprovingly at the interlopers into their domain, carefully framed by the arches of the panelling while various bronze sculptures stood in strategic places around the room. These were, Timothy understood, the results of Bartholomew Potter's little trip to Italy in the late 1590's where he'd spent a considerable sum on tourist tat (a number of his mother's letters had been rather sarcastic about it), and of course there was the portrait of the man himself that now hung near the fireplace.

All in all a rather nice room, fresh and light, nothing particularly strange or outlandish; Carrow had been rather restrained in here.

"Is everything all right?" he asked as he strolled over to Freya and the strangely quiet photographer.

Monty pointed a shaking finger. "Isn't that a Caravaggio?" he asked, his voice trembling with...Timothy couldn't quite put his finger on it; he looked up at the painting of the tousle haired youth with his lively hazel eyes, that gazed out dark and heavy lidded, and that knowing smirk that promised...all sorts of things.

"I do not know," a deep rumbling growl sounded behind them, "but the sitter is rumoured to be Bartholomew Charlus Potter who had a...torrid affair with a local artist when he toured Italy in the late 1590's."

Timothy turned slowly on the spot, ignoring Freya's gasp of surprise and Monty's frantic camera juggling. He had come to the realisation recently that when looked at magically, Carrow was rather like a spot of high pressure, or maybe like a black hole. Disguisable he was not.

"I believe it was never hung in his mother's lifetime," the giant man continued. "His wife wasn't keen either."

Beside him, one of the portraits, a particularly severe looking witch with a high black hat and a very impressive ruff gave a disapproving snort; Timothy ignored it as best he could.

"Good morning, Mr Carrow," Timothy murmured politely, "I hope your appointment was...fruitful."

Carrow gave him a shark like grin. "Indeed," he rumbled, before eyeing the two interlopers into his domain, ignoring the excited head-butting of Artemis as she tried to get his attention.

Timothy glared at the giant man. Oh, wonderful; just to add to his current problems, Carrow had decided to wear over a body-glove what could only be described as a chiton, unbelted, black, edged with an elaborate gold border and pinned at his shoulders, a large knife visible in its calf holster. He groaned, visions of what Freya and her colleagues were likely to write about the blasted lump flashing through his mind. _Mr Allesandor Carrow, lovable English eccentric, with a unique sartorial approach..._

Digging out a cigarette, he lit it with a quick snap of his fingers, watching as Carrow politely shook Freya's hand, inquiring as to her health, before advancing on Monty in a menacingly friendly sort of way. Monty obviously didn't appreciate it very much, as he stuttered through a greeting, face ashen and eyes wild, as he took in the huge muscles, powerful hands and a knife that was more akin to a short-sword.

Artemis, frustrated in her efforts at gaining her daddy's attention, began to leap up and down, jumping up against Carrow, reaching up with one huge paw in an attempt to pat his face, chuffing and muttering as she did so. Carrow looked down with a small smile at his beloved pet, and scooped her up, massaging the back of her neck until she turned boneless in his arms. At least someone was happy, Timothy thought, as he took a drag of his Black Russian.

Freya gave the pair a thoughtful look.

Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Timothy watched Freya with an increasing sense of anxiety, praying she didn't do or say anything dangerous...for her.

"So...Artemis must take a lot of care..."Freya commented, "what is she like at the vet's? Have you familiarised her...or trained her, so she doesn't find it upsetting?"

Carrow looked at her blankly, his fingers stilling for a moment much to Artemis's displeasure. He turned to his secretary, bewilderment colouring his expression. "What's a vet?" he asked.

Timothy groaned quietly.

oOo

It was pleasantly cool and dark in the confines of the garage, the chatter of adult voices, and the smell of the barbecue drifting in through the open door. With a bit of careful wedging involving some bricks, Hermione managed to make the hideous plastic doll stand upright. She stood back to admire her handiwork.

Perfect.

This was so going to make up for the last few days. Piper had been as awful as she'd predicted, dogging her every step (except when she went for her morning runs, since apparently _real_ girls didn't do that), criticising and generally being very annoying. Previously, all this would have had her in tears by now, but not this time. She, Hermione Jane Granger was now made of sterner stuff, so she wasn't going to get upset, oh no- she gave the nasty toy an evil grin- she was going to teach the bullying little cow a lesson.

Pulling out her pistol, she gave it one last check over. Everything appeared to be in working order, no rust, barrel clear, ammo loaded properly in its clip...she pulled out a rag and gave the gun a last careful wipe, taking a look at the runes of silence she'd carefully scratched on the barrel. They reduced the noise of the gun to a mere muffled pop without any appreciable effect on its performance. Chuddy had been so impressed he'd insisted she give his pistol the same treatment. She'd had so much fun this summer, learnt so much, and made so many friends. She couldn't wait for Hogwarts; there was so much she could show the Defence club. In fact, she'd already started putting together lesson plans...so exciting...

Bracing herself in a kneeling position, Hermione carefully sighted along the barrel, slipping the safety off as she did so.

"Whoa," came a gasp behind her, followed by a clatter as the owner of the voice accidentally kicked an old can of paint in his haste to back away.

Hermione slipped the safety back on, muzzle pointed at the floor as she twisted to see who it was, not Piper for certain, as there was a definite lack of spiteful screaming, but one of the adults...if Mum found out she'd got a gun...

No, just Zach. Still pretty awful, then.

"Erm," he began, pale faced, looking from her gun to the doll and back again, "erm, what are you doing?"

Hermione considered him for a moment; pale skin, brown eyes like Mum and Aunt Lindsay, except that he'd also inherited their nice straight, manageable hair which he wore short with a thick fringe, not fat, but not fit either. Pretty average really, and currently looking at her as if she'd sprouted a second head.

"I'm just giving Piper a message," Hermione gestured with the muzzle of her pistol towards the doll, "expressing my feelings..." she shrugged, "take your pick."

Zach stared at her with a mixture of horror, awe and amusement. "This is revenge for the lesbian rant, isn't it?"

"Maybe." Hermione gave him a sideways glance.

Piper's rather disgusting tirade that morning had just been the last straw, the one that broke that camel's back. She'd almost expressed her rage directly but had reined herself in at the last moment.

Piper, upset at something, heaven only knew what, had been attacking her verbally for several days now, always when Mum and Auntie Lindsay and the other adults were out of ear-shot or otherwise distracted.

Hermione was a friendless swot, she was ugly, she would never get a man because she was too butch, she had a nasty personality so no would could every possibly like her, could they, the only way she would ever find someone to love her would be if she got a pet dog, or went with a woman, and in Piper's opinion, well, Hermione already looked the part...

And then Piper had started in on how much she hated lesbians, and how they all ought to be drowned at birth.

Hermione had just let it wash over her, enjoying watching Piper dig her own grave deeper with every word she spoke, as, unbeknownst to the other girl, Auntie Lindsay and Dad had slipped into the living room behind her, lured away from the kitchen and the adult conversation by the noise.

To say they were unimpressed by her behaviour was putting it mildly.

Piper was currently sulking on the patio with a glass of orange juice, a slightly singed burger, and a flea in her ear, the adults keeping a watchful eye on her.

Raising her pistol, Hermione took careful aim, safety off, the doll's head in her sight...

The head of the hideous toy exploded in a shower of twisted fragments and shredded plastic hair.

Cathartic, satisfying, wish fulfilment fulfilled, Hermione wasn't sure what fitted it best. Carefully slipping the safety back on, she stowed the pistol and walked over to carefully examine the breeze-block wall that had acted as part of her impromptu firing range. She'd been hoping...oh, yes, there...carefully she pried the bullet out, gleefully holding it up for her pale faced cousin to see.

"Well, it's just a matter of putting these back in the box now," she explained as she scooped up the remains of the doll, "and then sit back and watch the show." She gave an evil grin Carrow would have heartily approved of.

oOo

Standing in the shadow of the main entrance, Timothy watched the vehicles of the World of Interiors people as they departed down the drive, back ram-rod straight, his face a frozen mask. What had looked like a simple couple of days of disruption had turned into something major that promised to drag on for several weeks at the very least, and then one of the senior editors had mentioned four dreadful words; English Heritage, Inland Revenue. Timothy wasn't sure which was worse.

He plonked himself down on the steps, not caring who saw him and buried his face in his hands. There were times when he really wanted to scream. What did he do now? The thought of Carrow's reaction to English Heritage poking around the house didn't bear thinking about... and the idea of Inland Revenue asking awkward questions about death duties, and where precisely Carrow had been hiding all these years...

He rubbed his face, feeling as if he'd aged fifty years in a day. Why hadn't these possibilities occurred to him _before_ he sent that stupid letter?

Felix charged past, squealing in glee as he was finally let loose from the stifling confines of education, his favourite football in his arms, Artemis padding after him, sensing the opportunity for a game.

Timothy sighed as he watched the two dash around the gravelled courtyard, dodging and weaving in the sunshine. It was only a matter of time before Artemis bit the ball in two, and then of course the pair of ruffians would come trotting over, begging him to mend the sorry object. He'd mended that football so often it practically counted as a magical object in its own right.

A rustle of fabric was the only warning he got as Carrow settled himself down on the steps beside him.

"Your thoughts are troubled," Carrow murmured, as he watched Felix attempt to kick the ball as high as he could to Artemis's delight.

Timothy turned and glared at his oblivious boss, before sinking back into his depressed state with a huff.

"I apologise. I've...really mucked up with this, haven't I?" he eventually whispered. "I just didn't think of the possible ramifications of what we've...you've got here..." he trailed off staring unseeingly across the courtyard, as Artemis climbed on top of the hummer, sprawling languidly across its roof in the sunshine.

"What is English Heritage?" Carrow asked. "I've come across the name- they are an administratum department specialising in the... care of old buildings, yes?"

Timothy nodded, still sunk in misery.

"I'm curious," Carrow continued as he craned over his shoulder to look at the Lodge, "this isn't an old building, not at all. The most venerable parts of the building are, what, barely a thousand years in age, and those foundations they were so excited about, maybe fifteen hundred to two thousand years in age, Terran standard, of course. That's not old at all."

Timothy opened his mouth to protest, but Carrow beat him to it. "My armour is, as far as I am able to ascertain, around eight thousand years in age, its place and origin of manufacture lost in the midst of time. My sword is of a similar vintage. My pistol, on the other hand...that is a relic of a much earlier time, though again I do not know when it was manufactured. Records do show that it was likely made in the Manufactoriums of Mars, and was used in battle during the earliest days of the Crusade when the God-Emperor led his glorious armies out into the stars to conquer the Galaxy for Humanity..." He gazed upwards, his face pensive. "What incredible deeds it must have been a part of...what it must have witnessed..." He trailed off and turned to the wide-eyed Timothy with a smile. "The Lodge is lovely, homely, rustic even, an heirloom of my birth family, and I am very fond of it...but it isn't old."

What could he say to that? Timothy blinked, thought of something to say, changed his mind and tried again. "I think," he finally said, "that maybe because we're at the dawn of Humanity's history that things have changed, are changing very rapidly. I mean, there are people alive today who can actually remember the telephone as being new innovative cutting edge technology, who lived without electricity because only the wealthy could afford such a new-fangled thing in their homes. Things have changed so rapidly that...it's rare for things to survive unchanged and unaltered from century to century, and that's why they were so excited about the Lodge...it's virtually unique."

Carrow nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose...that makes sense. But I'm still unsure as to why I should be so concerned by English Heritage."

Artemis bounced up to him chuffing excitedly, attempting to scramble onto his lap, nuzzling at his face. Carrow draped his arms around her and turned to his secretary questioningly.

Timothy wove his shaking fingers through his hair and pulled out a cigarette. "They're going to slap a Grade I listing on the Lodge, it's inevitable you know...and then..well, you know you've got plans for increasing the security? Particularly at the main gates?"

He lit the Black Russian and inhaled with relief, breathing out smoke like some particularly frazzled dragon.

Carrow nodded, interested to see where this was going to go.

"That guardhouse you're planning to put up will need Listed Building Consent, which in this case will severely limit every aspect of its possible design inside and out, its precise placement, whether you can put in parking nearby...all sorts of things...and if they don't like it or they feel that you've contravened your planning permission in some way...well, you can try applying for new retro-active Listed Building Consent...or they'll make you pull it all down and return that part of the grounds to its original state, at your own cost, or face a hefty fine...or jail..." Timothy paused in his rant. "I've heard all sorts of horror stories, people driven into bankruptcy, committing suicide because they couldn't cope with the stress any longer, even having their homes compulsorily purchased out from under them..." He looked up at Carrow. Really, the man wasn't taking this at all seriously. He watched in exasperation, as Carrow kissed the back of one of Artemis's ears, too engrossed as she was with Felix's antics to notice. At the damp tickling sensation, she turned into a squirming heap of playful paws and snapping teeth, before bouncing up and rushing across the courtyard to where Felix was busily kicking his ball into the air.

Swiping the ball out of mid-air, she dribbled it furiously across the courtyard into a corner by the gateway, Felix trotting after her, shrieking with laughter. Artemis scrabbled at the ball, trying to get it away from the wall with little success, finally resorting to her teeth. The ball gave a sad little pop as she accidentally tore a gaping hole in it.

"Artemis!" Felix cried out, exasperated.

Timothy and Carrow watched in amusement as the mismatched pair made their way back with the sadly deceased ball.

"I'm still unsure as to the need for archaeologists to dig up my lawn," Carrow commented, as Timothy cast several Reparo charms on the rather crumpled and torn looking ball, "but all bureaucracies work in much the same way, so this really isn't going to go away. The easiest solution would be to employ a group of people, with the correct specialisations of course, to take care of this aspect of the Lodge...hmm, archivists, these archaeologists, some general adminstratum drone types, an art historian or two...and architects...and hmm...well, something for you to sort out over the next week, I think."

Timothy tried not to grind his teeth at the challenging smile Carrow was giving him. Blast it! Talk about tripling his workload. Maybe he should have a chat with Freya, see if she knew anyone suitable who'd be interested...

Felix ran back across the courtyard with an excited whoop, the now mended football held proudly above his head, Artemis bouncing along behind him.

"Politicians like to live in old, prestigious houses, don't they," Carrow said thoughtfully, "and I wouldn't be surprised if they liked to modify and leave their mark on these homes either...hmmm..."

Timothy jerked round, glaring at Carrow suspiciously. What was he up to now?

oOo

"So, like this then?" Ron asked, as he threaded the canvas strap through the metal loop on the back of the belt.

Hermione nodded as she handed him over a couple of the pouches. "That's it...then you want to put these ones on next."

"Not the double ones?" Ron asked, as he carefully threaded the squashy, battered pouches on to the belt.

"No, the ammo pouches go on the front. The harness attaches to the top there." She pointed to the loops on their tops.

"Okay," Ron muttered as he adjusted things to his satisfaction. The morning had been incredibly exciting and nerve-wracking all at once, his first proper trip in to the muggle world with Hermione and her mum and dad to get him properly equipped for the defence club. He wasn't going to get Christmas or birthday presents for years after this, but it was going to be worth it.

The crowded shop had been overwhelming; all sorts of strange objects and garments piled high, their purpose unguessable to a young wizard, the air full of the scent of dusty canvas and old gun oil. Dad would have been in heaven. Actually, he was glad Dad couldn't come; it would have been _so_ embarrassing having him running round the shop, poking his wand at stuff, and bombarding the staff with questions. And the staff had been really nice and helpful and understood his need to keep to a budget. A burly man with sandy hair had helped him, picking out all the right sizes of garments and boots he needed, discussing the differences and advantages between webbing, assault vests and chest-rigs, dissuading him from getting a gas mask and even finding him a nice sturdy Bergen to put everything in. The small pouch of money mum had given him had gone far indeed.

And so now he was attired from head to foot in combat gear...or was it fatigues...he still wasn't entirely sure, and why fatigues? Did it make you tired to wear them? All things considered, he could believe that.

"There," he triumphantly announced as he held up his now complete PLCE webbing. He slipped it on, fastening the belt, carefully adjusting the straps with Hermione's help.

"That's it," Hermione said, as she adjusted the yoke slightly, "perfect!" She stepped back, giving him a grin.

"Very nice, baby bro," a puzzled but amused voice said.

Ron turned to find the rest of the occupants of the room watching him with various levels of amusement and interest.

"What's this for?" Bill asked, nodding towards his little brother's outlandish get-up.

"Defence club," Ron and Hermione replied together.

Bill and Charlie looked at one another. "Well, that's new," Charlie said, as he grabbed anther corned beef and pickle sandwich. "So when did that start then?"

"Last year," Hermione said, her smile rather fanatical, "we're some of the founding members, in fact. It just started with five of us, but our numbers were getting closer to fifteen by the end of the year."

"All houses and all years represented," Ron added proudly.

"So, what sort of things do you do, then?" Bill asked with a puzzled frown, staring at their attire. "I'm taking it basic hexes and jinxes... the rules of formal duelling..."

Ron and Hermione looked at one another; what should they, could they, tell him? "Well," Ron said slowly, "year before last, we had this amazing DADA professor, even though he was actually covering for the original professor who disappeared in mysterious circumstances...erm...anyway, we learnt so much about protecting ourselves...what to do, what it takes, that, beginning of last year we decided to campaign for a defence club so we could practise what Professor Carrow taught us. It took a while, so at first it was just a small group of us meeting when we could to go running and do basic exercises and such...but now we're a proper club and everything!" He grinned proudly. "Do you think I should turn everything black?" he asked Hermione, looking at her black fatigues consideringly.

"Nah," Hermione said, "I'm only wearing black because of Professor Carrow. You'll be glad of the camo when we do Search and Destroy exercises."

"Oh, okay then," Ron nodded.

Bill and Charlie looked at one another questioningly.

"Search and destroy?" Charlie mouthed at his older brother.

Bill shrugged; he was none the wiser.

"They're a bunch of nutters," Fred shouted from the other side of the room.

"Too true, brother of mine," George added.

"Well, I think it's quite wonderful," Molly said, as she went past, "founding member of a Hogwarts club, my," she smiled at her youngest son proudly, smoothing his hair down and adjusting his collar.

"Muuuum," Ron whined, face bright pink with embarrassment.

Molly gave him a last loving pat on the shoulder, and continued through to the kitchen, intent on that last plate of sandwiches she'd made up, just in case.

"Of course," Bill said nonchalantly, "you might find yourselves rather distracted this year from...clubs and such." He smirked into his mug of tea, Charlie nodding in agreement, trying to hide his grin.

"Just tell us," George crowded his older brother, a sandwich in each hand threatening to get crumbs in Bill's long hair.

"Come on, the suspense is killing us," Fred added, as he sneaked up behind Charlie's chair with a glass of home-made lemonade, causing his older brother to leap up and back away from the menacing sticky liquid.

"Can't be that important," Ron said quietly to Hermione, "otherwise, Professor Carrow would have said something to you, right?"

"Or he believed it to be completely beneath his notice," Hermione replied with a wry smile.

"Boys!" Molly roared as she spotted the twins' antics. Fred and George sloped back to their corner, sending resentful looks over their shoulders.

Percy stumbled through the door at that moment in his smart interview robes, looking rather frazzled and stunned, an oddly shaped case clutched in one hand and a bulging folder tucked tightly under his arm. The collected Weasley family (and guests) turned to him expectantly.

"My third son, Percy," Ron could hear his dad explaining to the Grangers with pride, "just applied for a job at the Ministry." The Grangers offered their congratulations.

"Come on, Perce, don't leave us in suspense," Charlie called out, Ginny giggling at her brothers' antics from where she sat next to Bill on the sofa.

Percy drew himself up, brushing his robes smooth. "You are looking at the new secretary of the personal secretary of the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic." He looked around the living room smugly.

"Well, that's umm...congratulations, Percy," Bill said, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. Ron just shook his head sadly, while the Twins stared at their older brother before dissolving into hysterical cackles, rolling on the floor clutching their stomachs.

"Oh really, Fred, George, behave yourselves," Molly admonished, as she strode round the sofa, intent on giving Percy the biggest hug of his life.

"He's going to be impossible for ages after this," Ron muttered in disgust to Hermione. She smirked back.

"Maybe... maybe not. What's in the case?" she asked innocently, pointing to the mysterious case by Percy's feet.

Percy's head jerked down, the colour draining from his face as his worry returned. "It's a...it's a manual...type...writer. I've got to learn how to type in a week. Audrey, the, err, typing pool manager, gave me an instruction manual and a, umm, tutorial, and a huge pile of paper...and I've started, but ...and I've got to learn to use a computer, and...and word...pro-cess-ing and _Lotus123_, after that. It's terrifying!" he whimpered. "I never knew the Ministry used so much muggle technology. Dad, do you use a com-puter at work?"

Arthur stared at his son, open mouthed. "Erm...no, not really, erm..." Dan Granger leaned over, muttering something, and understanding bloomed on Arthur's face. "No, just regular ink and parchment for us, my boy. I take it Allesandor likes his home comforts, then. So this type-wiper, what does it do precisely?"

"Dad," Percy said warningly, clutching the case protectively to his chest, "I've got to hand this back in a week, unharmed or altered in any way, shape or form; so _no_ fiddling with it!"

"Good luck with that," Ron muttered. Hermione sniggered into her sandwich.

OOOOOO

His heart soared as the hedges whipped past, the fresh air buffeting his face, the roar and vibration of the machine beneath him that responded to the slightest touch...utter bliss...he couldn't remember such happiness, such simple pleasure in years.

He roared round a corner, ignoring the startled yelps of some people out walking their dogs.

To be gifted such a machine! Timothy continued to surprise him at odd moments with the unlooked for kindness and generosity that he was capable of. It was rather disconcerting at times.

And then there was the _other_ issue...the living God-Emperor himself had ridden _his_ motorbike at some point! Timothy was being annoyingly elusive about it, something to do with tests was all he could ascertain...but the God-Emperor had used his bike, had sat on it, held the handlebars, ridden it. He knew it as surely as he breathed air, the psykic residue, so powerful, so pure, tingling on his skin. Did this make the motorbike a holy relic? Something to be revered, preserved in perfect condition, never to be touched? Except this was a gift, a birthday gift, not an anniversary he'd troubled himself with in a very long time, obviously meant to be used, considering some of Timothy's chatter at him, though he'd been too busy admiring his new steed to take much notice.

But no matter, the result was glorious. This wonderful machine, so clearly based on his beloved scout bike, though sleeker, less heavily armoured, and how it went! He dodged round an ugly boxy ground car, and darted across a junction, the bike's animal roar tearing through the air, only to get stuck behind one of those ponderous public transport vehicles...buses, that was what they were called...but it soon turned off into a newer road which led onto an estate of new houses barely ten years old, all virtually identical in their square configurations, with their brick paved drives and patches of lawn. He'd been through it once with Artemis for their morning run.

He opened up the throttle, the roar of the engine echoing off the steep verges as he sped down the lane.

The flashing of blue lights in the mirrors Timothy had insisted were a legal necessity became increasingly annoying, a white ground-car drifting into place behind him, a strip of flashing lights on its roof. The driver gestured for him to pull over, and so he did at the first possible opportunity, twisting round to eye the vehicle as it pulled to a stop behind him, the bonnet proudly proclaiming POLICE.

He frowned in puzzlement; what did the local Arbites want with him?

The two police officers exited their patrol car, strolling over with an air of enforced nonchalance. The one with thinning blonde hair inspected the back tyre for a moment, while his dark haired companion came closer, his demeanour relaxed but wary. Carrow watched the two men carefully. Why had they stopped him? He was an Inquisitor, beyond all but the judgement of the God-Emperor hims...

It hit him like a ton of bricks, there was no glorious galaxy spanning Imperium of Man, and the God-Emperor was a Professor of Physics working at CERN.

"Good afternoon, sir," the dark haired officer said, "I'm sure you're wondering why we stopped you today. Did you realise you were riding without a helmet?"

Carrow looked furtive. Timothy had _made_ him wear the sensible black helmet, but where was the fun in riding a bike with a helmet on blocking the rush of fresh air, that unpleasant deadening sensation around the ears? He'd stowed the blasted thing in the compartment provided in the bike at the first possible opportunity. Scowling, he pried the compartment open and dragged the hateful thing out, plonking it in his head, leaving the chin strap dangling.

"Thank you," the officer said with a tight smile, "you are required to wear your helmet at all times for your own personal safety. I'm sure you understand," he soldiered on, ignoring Carrow's puzzled scowl. "What do you think would happen if you crashed into a car?"

Carrow gave this question some thought; his steed would be fine, he was sure, for it was solidly built and had the blessing of the God-Emperor himself. As for what would happen to him...

"I'd bounce," he announced happily.

The dark-haired officer raised an eyebrow, exchanging a look with his colleague, who had developed a sudden cough. "May I see your driving licence sir?" he asked brusquely.

Carrow looked blankly from him to his colleague. Driving licence, what would he need a driving licence for?

"I'm taking it you have taken your test, particularly given the...uniqueness of your vehicle," the dark-haired officer said, a slight frown beginning to show.

A test? He'd not taken a test, not that he recalled. Timothy had given him a small book entitled _The Highway Code,_ and demanded he memorise it, insisting that these were the rules he needed to follow while driving anything on public roads (including tanks. He'd asked.) He'd done so, if only to keep his annoyingly persistent apprentice quiet. But test...no.

"How about insurance? Who are you insured with?" the dark-haired officer asked, looking increasingly grim.

Carrow scrunched his face up in puzzlement. "What is...insurance?" he asked.

The two police officers stared at him in disbelief, a small muscle beginning to twitch under the right eye of the dark-haired one.

"I think it might be a good idea if you accompanied us back to the police station, sir," the blonde officer said, his colleague apparently overcome by some...emotion.

Carrow sulked all the way to this...station, trapped behind the docile and well-behaved patrol car, the chin strap of the hateful helmet flapping in the breeze. It didn't matter that Timothy had had the Charnel Guards' skull and crossed bones stencilled on the front, he still hated it.

The station turned out to be a grim, squat, fairly modern building, maybe twenty years old, of pebble-dashed concrete and mean little windows, with a heavily secured yard to one side, the whole thing having an air of being built on the cheap. He parked beside the officers' ground car, finally able to take the blasted helmet off, taking in the general unlovely grimness of the place. Some things never seemed to change, no matter where or even, it seemed, when, you were in the galaxy. Local law enforcers seemed to favour ugly buildings. Hadn't they heard of intimidation through grandeur? He would have given such a place a grand entrance full of instructional statuary and embellishments with plenty of gilding to show the building was a place of authority and power; nothing like the tortures of the damned to get the masses looking to their own consciences.

"Sir, if you would follow us, please," the voice of the dark-haired officer came from behind him.

Carrow swung round, to find the two men staring up at him warily, the blonde one wide-eyed, his hand on his baton. His colleague, though, seemed to have nerves of steel, and stared up at him challengingly. Neither man seemed to want to have him behind them as they entered the station through an annoyingly small door, which he only just managed to shoulder his way through, into a rather anonymous corridor and reception area. If it wasn't for the lack of an Imperial cult shrine in a corner, and the signage being in the wrong language, he could have been back in the Imperium, with the slightly dingy pale green of the walls, the grey floor tiles and flickering fluorescent lighting. His hearts ached for his loss.

The dark-haired officer stopped at the reception point, and Carrow ducked so he could see through the sliding glass panel to the middle aged lady and her colleagues in the office beyond.

"Morning, Constable Baines," she trilled with a smile

"One to process, Enid," Constable Baines announced.

Carrow watched as Enid eyed him curiously over the top of her pink plastic framed glasses. "Can I have your name, sir?" she asked.

"Allesandor Darius Carrow," Carrow intoned, watching fascinated, as Enid began to input the information into her cogitator terminal.

"Is that..._Alex_ander...with an x?" she asked with a small frown.

oOo

Timothy brought the Hummer to a screeching halt in the Police car park. How the _hell_ had Carrow managed to get himself into trouble this time? It had been supposed to be a quiet Sunday afternoon ride on his new motorcycle. Mind you, ask a stupid question...

He stormed into the station, leather great-coat flaring around him. "Mr Carrow, where is he?" he snapped at the wide-eyed receptionist. Taking in the stunned silent stare he was receiving, he reined his temper in, locking it carefully behind his stony mask. "I'm Timothy Faulks, Mr Carrow's personal secretary. I received a phone-call, about...twenty minutes ago, informing me of Mr Carrow's presence here. I came as quickly as I could."

And he had too. He'd been having a friendly duel with Wulfric when the call had arrived, and as a result was only wearing a body-glove under his coat, which was most certainly not coming off.

A moment later, and a wary police officer, who kept giving him odd sideways looks, led him into an area of the station only the criminally inclined or the terminally unlucky would normally get to see. There, sat on a bench out of the way, was Carrow, watching the regular activities of the Police station with an expression of almost childish curiosity, while nibbling on...

Timothy scowled; what idiot had thought giving Carrow chocolate was a good idea? They'd even gone to the trouble of separating the kit-kat fingers for him, and given him a bottle of water to wash it down with.

"Getting arrested isn't generally considered a particularly effective method of acquiring free chocolate," Timothy snapped at the giant annoyance. "You have arrested him, haven't you?" he asked the nearest suspicious looking police officer.

"I, err..." the officer pulled himself together. "There's the matter of Mr Carrow's driving licence and insurance needing to be clarified. According to our records, Mr Carrow does appear to have a driving licence, but he has no recollection of ever having taken a test. As for the insurance..." He grimaced.

Timothy nodded in understanding, rubbing at his forehead in an attempt to relieve his slowly forming headache. "The paperwork for both is in a black folder in the storage compartment of the bike...as I told him."

One of the officers trotted off in order to retrieve the alleged folder.

"What is your...relationship with Mr Carrow?" his colleague asked, a peculiar expression in his face as he took in the other man's long leather coat, facial scars and heavy boots. Timothy eyed him a moment.

"Personal secretary, which translates to more of a minder-nanny sort of role."

"Ahh," the officer exclaimed, his smile becoming even more fixed.

Fortunately the other officer arrived back with the folder at that point, and they huddled round, rifling through the contents, checking and double checking that everything was in order.

"So when did Mr Carrow take his driving test?" the first officer asked again, Constable Baines, Timothy had heard him called.

"Oh, about...three weeks ago now," Timothy replied, as he double checked the insurance paperwork. He had got Carrow the right type hadn't he?

"No, I didn't," Carrow piped up helpfully.

Timothy turned to his wayward employer, trying not to show his annoyance. "Do you remember that last test where you drove on the road and followed instructions from the gentleman on the motorcycle in front of you?"

Carrow stared at him, frowning. "Yes," he finally admitted.

"Well, _that_ was your driving test," Timothy said absently, as he read some of the fine print of the insurance policy. Carrow stared at him, eyes widening slightly.

"You tricked me," he accused, voice showing a little pride and amusement.

"If I'd told you it was a driving test, you'd have refused to do it," Timothy said. "It was the simplest, most painless method for everyone."

"Well, that all seems to be in order," Constable Baines handed the folder back, "though it looks like you've got your work cut out for you."

"Tell me about it," Timothy muttered to him as he led them out of the building.

"What is insurance?" Carrow suddenly asked.

Timothy looked round to find Carrow standing far too close, licking the last of the chocolate from his fingers, gazing down at him with those intensely green eyes.

"Insurance? It's like a bet...that your home, or car or...motorbike won't come to harm between you and the insurance company. In the contract, you can specify what types of damage or accidents can be included or excluded..."

Carrow went quiet and thoughtful as they made their way towards the giant motorcycle that seemed the equal in size of any of the cars parked nearby. Timothy watched him warily.

"That's ridiculous!" Carrow burst out. "What's to stop people staging accidents or setting their homes on fire and then claiming the money...or over stating damage...deliberately making it worse. That's almost impossible to keep track of, if every ground-car," he gestured expansively around him, "has these...insurance policies."

"That," Timothy said patronisingly, "is insurance fraud and results in Constable Baines coming and arresting you."

Carrow looked thoughtfully at him. "What if," he said slowly, "you set someone up and make it look..."

"Stop digging the hole bigger," Timothy snapped, exasperated. Did the man have _no_ sense? "And talking of digging holes bigger, the archaeologists started digging test pits today. Except when they came back from lunch, Artemis had enlarged one, and left them a, err...little gift in the bottom."

OOOOOO

Lily sighed heavily to herself as the illumination of the...Chapel, they had decided it was, increased, revealing once again the unrelenting gothic finery of the space their portrait was held in, the depressing glorification of violence, the possible worship of death, and the very strange obsession with St George and the Dragon, though she honestly couldn't work out why he was wearing that funny armour.

She and James had lost track of the days, but they believed it had been some time since they had woken up, possibly months even. Months filled with strange and menacing figures, chanting five times a day, incense and candles, and every so often a special service as a new skull was interred in one of the decorative racks with much ceremony. Were these the honoured dead, their earthly remains being venerated? James didn't think so, his grasp of the wonky Latin being slightly better than her own. He seemed to think these were actually the spoils of war, victims of the war-mongering of the monstrous giant who always led these events. Lily hoped he was wrong.

In fact, James had became so disgusted with the behaviour of the cloaked giant and his minions, that he had started going to sleep as soon as the lights came on, leaving Lily on her own to face it all. Lily glared up at him and gave him a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbow, but all she got was a grunt and a mutter as he settled closer to her. Huffing in annoyance, she watched the giant stalk up the Chapel and kneel before the main altar, before launching into his usual; a round of prayers to his "God-Emperor", prayers full of violence and hatred towards anything inhuman...anything _other_. It was all so depressing, a never-ending stream of cruelty, rage, and brutality. What sort of culture could possibly produce such a hideous mentality?

The giant ran through his worship, his prayer-beads running deftly through his fingers, the hideous gilded skeleton _things_ standing attendant, grasping various ritual objects, decorated skulls, incense censors, strings of finger bones, candles in decorative holders, devotional images. He rose slowly and bowed, before turning and making his way slowly towards her. Lily sighed heavily; and here came the part she utterly dreaded.

The giant came to a halt in front of her, face hidden in the shadows of his hood, prayer beads held by giant fingers. The prayers began anew, now directed at herself and James, and their multitudinous ancestors. Beside her, James began to tremble slightly as if suppressing laughter. _The enormous git,_ she fumed_, he's been pretending to be asleep all along!_ She gave him a hard jab in the stomach with her elbow, completely unsympathetic to his grunt of pain. At least he'd grown up enough to suppress the urge to actually make fun of their "biggest fan"; she had a feeling things would get very nasty if he did.

The prayers ran through their familiar formulae, the hideous skeleton things joining in at key moments, waving incense, and gesturing. It made no more sense to her now than the first time. Where were they? What was going on, and who was this man? Maybe she should just ask.

As the prayers wound down and the giant stepped forward to refresh the altar flowers, Lily seized her opportunity.

"Excuse me," she said. The giant continued with his task.

"Excuse me," she tried louder. "Excuse me!" The giant continued unheeding with his task. "Parlez-vous Francais?" she tried out of desperation; maybe he just didn't understand English.

The giant's fingers froze in their task, the hood turning to stare at her, growling something in a language she was completely unfamiliar with, couldn't place at all.

"Uhmm, do you speak English?" Lily asked rather desperately. The giant nodded slightly.

"Oh good," Lily sighed with relief. Beside her, James had completely given up pretending he was asleep, and was watching the conversation with some interest.

"Well...we just have a few questions for you, if you don't mind." Lily smiled at the hooded figure who was now giving her his undivided attention. "Where are we?" she asked, "and uhmm...what year is it? Has it been a long time since we, ah, passed away?"

The giant carefully considered her questions for a moment.

"This is the Lodge," the giant finally rumbled, "the Potter family home."

James stared at him open-mouthed. "I grew up at the Lodge and there was definitely nothing like _this_," he gestured, "when I was a kid, so try again."

The giant tilted his head slightly, contemplating them for a moment. "I had this place of worship built. The house was...sadly lacking a chapel." He began to turn.

"Please tell us the year," Lily called after him desperately.

The giant half-turned back to them. "994.M2. The month of...August in the local parlance, I believe."

Lily frowned in thought, ignoring James's mutinous mutterings. "Oh, I see," she said finally, "the 994th year of the second millennium...1994." She smiled at the giant, who gave her an approving nod.

"That means our little Bambi would be just starting his fourth year at Hogwarts. I bet he's so tall and handsome now. Would it be possible for us to see Harry?" she asked hopefully. "It's been so long since I've seen my baby. I just want to know he's alright, that he's okay..." She looked up at the giant pleadingly.

The giant seemed to hesitate.

"He is alright, isn't he?" Lily asked, beginning to feel alarmed. "We were very specific about who should raise Harry in the event of our deaths."

Lily began to shiver slightly as terrible possibilities crowded her mind. What if her darling little boy had been given to Petunia? James wrapped his arms around her, and she turned into the offered comfort, listening to his soothing murmurs as he rubbed her back gently.

The giant seemed to hesitate for a moment, apparently caught in indecisiveness. "I can assure you," he finally said, "that your son is in good health."

The giant reached up to his hood, and pulled it back, revealing a familiar face. James blanched in horror as he stared at the visage that so resembled his own, but on a truly heroic scale, marred by scars, so many scars...and those green eyes, such a vivid green that he'd only over seen on two other people before...but not like this, never like this...so cold and calculating, but oddly innocent in a childish sort of way...and underneath it all a seething ocean of tightly controlled rage.

James clung to Lily tighter, trying to edge his way between her and this madman, but Lily seemed frozen in shock, and wouldn't move.

"James Potter...Lily Potter," the giant intoned in his deep gravelly voice, "I am your son."

"No, no," James cried, denying it, even though things began to make a terrible sort of sense, clinging to Lily as if she were a life-line, even as she clung back. "_Noooo_!"


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Author's Note

A big thank-you for all your wonderful reviews, I always appreciate them and they always give me plenty to think about.

I'll apologise for the scene with the soldiers in, in advance. I used to work in a military surplus store, so I've met a fair few squaddies, and have a good idea of their equipment, and what sort of things they like to make their lives more comfortable (tiny little titanium stoves and sporks always went down well), but I'm not at all clued up about military organisation itself, or how the ranks think and feel about one another (though I can guess). If anyone sees any particularly embarrassing mistakes please feel free to point them out. I really appreciate it

Now on to Keele University. I actually went there for a summer school with the Open University nearly fifteen years ago. It was absolutely brilliant, I got to handle a piece of uranium during a lab session (so cool :-D ), and utterly crazy, I was woken up by drunken fifty something year-olds falling over into the bushes below my window at 2am most nights (so annoying). Anyway, the grounds of Keele University are really wooded and green with lots of open spaces and the various building spread over quite a wide area. My memory may be a little hazy but I remember the refectory building where I went to get breakfast all of that week as being an early 80's sort of thing, built of red brick with large tinted glass windows. I might be wrong, it was a while ago...

* * *

Chapter 3

Mrs Faulks tutted as Shaun began to fuss in his pushchair, bored and desperate to explore. Typically, Timothy was late, and the cup of coffee she'd ordered him was cooling on the table, untouched and forlorn.

"Where has he got to?" Sandra snapped, as she pushed Shaun's pushchair back and forth in an attempt to sooth him.

"Well, he said he'd be here," Mrs Faulks said distractedly, as she eyed the passing crowds of shoppers. Even though it was mid-week, harried families swarmed past, laden down with shopping, as they frantically bought last minute supplies for their off-springs' return to school. Any sign of her wayward younger son, not a one; oh, how she wished he would get another job. She had watched him turn from a happy confident boy, into an increasingly bitter man, into this...gaunt, haunted shadow of himself.

Oh dear, there he was, slowly making his way along, fingers trailing along the balustrade, absently gazing down into the densely planted winter garden below, his posture rigid and upright, one of those black and gold cigarettes drooping from his mouth, and- oh, good grief, what _did_ he think he looked like?

She'd seen him before in that ridiculous get-up, the slim trousers with the satin ribbon down the outer leg seam, the little braid encrusted jacket that was so close fitting it was a wonder he could move his arms, and that blasted sash. She couldn't say what particularly annoyed her about the blue and bronze sash, but she could quite cheerfully set it on fire. In some strange fit he'd obviously attempted to "dress down" his outrageous ensemble, and had left the neck open, revealing the white of his shirt and a "v" of pale, wiry, and to her horror, scarred chest...

With his shaggy, roughly slicked back hair and sideburns, it only succeeded in making him look even more disreputable and dodgy; the nearby shoppers parted warily around him like a herd of wildebeest near a pack of lions, Timothy being completely oblivious to them all.

"My god," Sandra muttered, "he looks like a reject from a Napoleonic re-enactment group."

"You mean, because he was trying too hard," Mrs Faulks added with a small smile.

Shaun picked that moment to clamber from his pushchair and charge off, squealing at the top of his voice, "Unca, unca!"

"When did he manage that?" Sandra asked in shock, as she leapt to her feet and made after her wayward offspring. Mrs Faulks shook her head in exasperation, watching as Timothy scooped his nephew up and settled him on his hip. Predictably, the little lad attempted to stick his fingers in his uncle's mouth, having developed an unhealthy obsession with Timothy's gold teeth shortly after he became aware of them. It had certainly enlivened Shaun's first visit to the dentist, where he had demanded, with his severely limited vocabulary, "shiny tooth wiv pic'urs."

Sandra had not been impressed.

"I thought we were having sandwiches for lunch, not fingers," Mrs Faulks distinctly heard Timothy tell a giggling Shaun as he made his way over, Sandra watching him with a scowl.

"I, err...sorry I'm late," Timothy said as he hitched Shaun more comfortably on his hip. "The new archivists arrived this morning, and it took longer than I had anticipated, showing them around, and answering questions."

"Archivists?" Sandra asked, as they settled round the table again, Timothy attempting to keep the wriggling toddler on his lap but failing miserably.

"Yes," he said distractedly as he finally gave in and let Shaun slip to the floor, "to put Mr Carrow's family records in order. I've tried to make some sort of start on it, but there's hundreds of years worth and it's completely beyond my capabilities what with everything..." He trailed off, grimacing slightly at the luke-warm coffee. "So how have you all been?"

The conversation drifted into normal everyday topics, much to Mrs Faulks relief, as Sandra happily launched into a retelling of her little darling's newest achievements, as the small boy in question picked his toys out from the pushchair and hid them under the table.

The day continued more or less as she'd planned, as she and Sandra wandered from shop to shop in search of the perfect dresses to wear to her niece's wedding next summer, Timothy trailing after them. If they didn't start planning their outfits now, it would only turn into a mad dash the week before with no guarantee that something suitable would be available. Sandra had the sense to listen, but Timothy on the other hand...

"Mum, I already have a suit that will do, honestly," he said as he cuddled Shaun standing in the middle of the men's outfitters she finally managed to drag him into. "It's grey, and it's really boring, and I really like it."

And so despite her careful arguments and dire warnings of his tie potentially clashing with the bridesmaids dresses, he stubbornly refused to listen, instead keeping a wary watch, twitching whenever one of the strangely numerous security guards came too close, almost clinging to Shaun as if he were a life-line, particularly after she confiscated his cigarettes since he was chain smoking. What a terrible example for such an impressionable child.

Fortunately, Shaun didn't seem to mind and appeared to be enjoying the excellent view his uncle's extra height afforded him.

Needing watering after their marathon clothes-shop crawl, they stopped at another coffee shop, Shaun now safely ensconced in his pushchair fast asleep.

Timothy, suddenly remembering something, reached into an inside pocket, pulled out a bulging envelope (Mrs Faulks suspected magical involvement), and handed it to a puzzled Sandra.

"Mattie gave this to me, to give to you," he explained and Sandra gleefully tore it open, pulling out her prize, an origami turtle for Shaun falling out on to the table.

_Ah, thoughtful_, Mrs Faulks smiled at her youngest son happily, as Sandra devoured her unusually long letter. It was so difficult for military wives when they could go months without seeing their other halves, left to run the household and look after the children virtually on their own, with that persistent worry at the back of their minds, _would he come back alive this time_. And especially now that Mattie was in a war-zone that was proving to be particularly vicious, and- _hang on_..."Timothy,_ when_ did Mattie give you that letter?" she asked, her heart freezing in her chest.

Timothy stared back wide-eyed. "Erm...about three weeks, I think...erm...this was the first opportunity I had to hand it over..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Timothy, Matthew is out in Yugosla..." Mrs Faulks snapped angrily, before a horrible suspicion occurred to her. "Were you out there too? What were you doing? Why would you need to go there?"

Timothy hunched defensively in his chair, arms crossed. "I was just doing Mattie a good turn, because I caused him a bit of bother..."

Mrs Faulks stared angrily at her errant younger son. "This is Mr Carrow, isn't it? He's a bad influence!"

Timothy didn't need to say anything, she just knew, as he slumped down further in his chair that she'd hit the nail on the head.

"Can I have my cigarettes back now?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"No, you may not!" Mrs Faulks gave him a disapproving glare.

"Muuum!" he whined.

OOOOOO

Sirius whooped with delight; this latest addition to the partially restored and refurbished Grimmauld Place had only been installed in the rejuvenated living room this morning, but already it was proving- he yelled joyfully- everything he'd hoped, and more.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Remus exclaimed from the doorway, clearly exasperated, as Sirius finally tumbled to the floor, laughing. "Why did you feel the need to have this...this.._bucking bronco_ of all things installed in the living room? It's utterly ridiculous!"

Sirius sprawled on the floor, his robes spread around him, still laughing. "Ah, don't be like that, Moony, it's just a bit of fun," he whined, "just have a go."

"Absolutely not!" Remus backed away glaring, knowing what would happen next if he wasn't careful.

"Aww, come on, Moony!" Sirius bounced up, stalking towards his best friend in the world, with an evil grin. "You're far too up-tight, you know, you need to lighten up a little, have more fuuunn..."

The soft ding-dong of the front doorbell sounded, followed predictably by awful screeches. "SLUR ON THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK, SCUM..."

Sirius groaned. "Of all the timing..." He threw his hands up, as he stormed out of the room and down the hall. "This had better not be Allesandor, I don't think I can cope with him this early in the morning."

"TRAITOR SON OF MINE, HOW DARE YOU CHANGE THE WALLPAPER..."

"Oh shut up, you old cow!" Sirius screamed back, as he wrenched the heavy curtains back over the hated portrait of his late and unlamented mother. It had been the only solution that they'd managed to come up with so far, thanks to the permanent sticking charm his mother had used, short of removing the entire wall. Personally, he wanted to use fiendfyre on the wretched thing; only Remus' threat to permanently change him into a poodle, a _female_ poodle, had deterred him so far.

"Headmaster! It's good to see you, please come in." Remus' voice drifted over from the front door and Sirius relaxed with a sigh; brilliant, not Allesandor, his psycho god-son then. He could cope with Dumbledore; the old man might even like some of the more...novel additions he'd made to the old family home.

"Sirius, my boy," Dumbledore greeted him warmly as he strolled into the hall, gazing around in appreciation. "I see your efforts with the refurbishments are paying off handsomely. It looks wonderful." He smiled at Sirius, his blue eyes merry.

Sirius beamed happily as he admired his handiwork in the hall. Gone was the dingy wood, shabby dirty wallpaper and dubious collection of dark objects. The walls of the hall were now covered with a violently floral, cream and gold wallpaper, white ceiling and cornice with a little tasteful gilding on the mouldings, the woodwork and floor stripped of their ancient varnish and polished to a warm honey coloured tone. He'd had difficulties deciding on carpet runners, in the end resorting to buying all the designs he like in red; mismatched, yes, but it worked. The little furniture visible was all mahogany, and then he'd finished it all off with the brightest, most sparkly chandeliers he could find. Grimmauld Place was slowly becoming a place he could genuinely call home.

"We've just finished in the living room, just had the last touches installed this morning," Sirius grinned. Now, what were the odds he could get Dumbledore to have a go. He summoned the new house-elf. "Pippy! Tea and nibbles for three, if you would." The eager house-elf popped away with an excited squeak, delighted to be catering for guests.

Sirius's grin only broadened as Dumbledore walked into the living room and came to a halt exclaiming "Oh my," as he gazed around wide-eyed. "How wonderful!"

"Yeah, Timmo...my god-son's secretary gave me some muggle magazines devoted to err...interior design. Gave me loads of brilliant ideas," Sirius said as he examined his efforts with a critical eye. The once dark and oppressive space full of unpleasant memories had been transformed with plain cream walls, more stripped wood, lime-washed furniture upholstered in ox-blood red velvet, pale marble, and the lightest of taffeta drapes at the windows. He'd then added what Timmo insisted on calling a conservatory at the back which led directly into the garden, and in the middle, in pride of place, sat the bucking bronco surrounded by discrete cushioning charms. It was all the things he craved for, light, warmth, fresh air, open space, fun. He'd spent so long locked away in the cold and dark that, now he'd got used to being free, even cupboards were starting to make him feel panicky.

"Did you have help with the plants?" Dumbledore asked, as he gazed through the open doors of the conservatory into the lush greenery of the garden beyond.

"Oh yeah," Sirius smiled ruefully, "bit of a black thumb me. Do you remember Bunty Glossop?"

"Hufflepuff? Friend of Alice's?" Dumbledore asked. "Yes, lovely young lady, very hardworking, highest Herbology NEWT in fifty years, if I remember rightly."

Sirius nodded. "Yeah, I've hired her to look after the garden for me. She's done amazing things, and in only two months as well. The first week poor Bunty had to wear dragon-hide armour, some of the plants were _that_ out of control."

Dumbledore murmured appreciatively, raising an amused eyebrow as he took in the large muggle print in a gilt frame of a group of dogs playing cards that had pride of place above the fireplace.

A horrific monstrosity of a creature, all golden filigree and old yellowed bones covered in runes stalked into the living room, incongruously wearing a frilly pink apron, carrying a loaded tea tray, and herded by a shrill Pippy. The men watched in uncomfortable silence as the...thing put the tray down, stared at them a moment with empty eye sockets lit by a unearthly glow, before stalking away followed by Pippy squeakily barking orders at it.

"Ah, yes," Sirius shifted uncomfortably, "little gift from my god-son when he discovered I was living without at least half-a-dozen servants. Apparently such a thing is beneath someone of my status...scone, anyone?"

"Well, I suppose I should tell you why I'm visiting," Dumbledore sighed as he settled himself more comfortably on the sofa with a cup of tea and a fruit scone. "Have you considered taking up your family seat on the Wizengamot?" he asked.

Sirius coughed as he choked on a crumb of scone. "What?" he wheezed, as he gulped down some tea. "You're serious, aren't you? Why? Wait a moment, don't answer that," Sirius held up a hand as Dumbledore opened his mouth, "this is my bloody god-son, isn't it? You only have to meet him for five minutes to realise he's a manipulative murderous little...great big..." He waved a hand expressively, searching desperately for the right words to adequately express his feelings.

"Quite," Dumbledore interrupted before Sirius could get descriptive, "and now he occupies one of the most powerful positions in the Ministry, and Minister Fudge is so obviously...only still where he is, because dear Allesandor currently finds him useful," Dumbledore sighed heavily, "and I still suspect under-hand means. Madam Umbridge's death was just too...convenient..."

The room descended into silence, the twittering of birds drifting in from the garden outside.

"What does it take," Dumbledore suddenly burst out, "to persuade a fully grown man that assassination isn't a canny political manoeuvre, that actually most people see it as rather anti-social!" He shook his head. "Allesandor is just so...frustrating. He'll be belligerent, aggressive and violent, bull-headed to an extreme...but then he'll do something that reminds me so much of the boy that I knew for that one year that..." He gave the two silent men a sad smile. "Enough of my troubles."

"He's running amok, isn't he?" Sirius asked as he put his tea-cup down with a tiny clatter. "You were wondering if I might be a...good influence on Allesandor..."

"A little more than that," Dumbledore replied, leaning back. "I'm trying to put together a group of people who are independent minded enough to stand up to our dear Senior Under-secretary, not out-right opposition per say. I doubt he'd tolerate that. No, it's more a group who will weed out some of his more outrageous ideas."

Sirius and Remus nodded slowly, their expressions worried. "Like his suggestion...demand," Remus said carefully, "of a mandatory military service for all young magical males. I couldn't believe it when I saw _that_ in the paper."

"But it didn't get through," Sirius said, quickly looking between the two men.

"No, it didn't, I managed to drum up enough support to shoot that one down," Dumbledore said tiredly. "It took a surprising amount of effort."

Sirius considered things a moment, an uncharacteristically serious frown on his face. "So who have you got so far?" he asked.

"Well," Dumbledore said with a small smile beginning to show, "a number of the old crowd you're sure to know, Elphius Dodge of course...Ptolemy Chant and his brother-in-law Cuthbert, Madam Bagshot, Madam Longbottom and err...Madam Malfoy...so far."

"That's a mixed bag," Remus commented with a raised eyebrow, "Dodge, dyed in the wool Liberal, Ptolemy Chant..."

"We went to school together," Dumbledore explained with a small shrug.

"...traditionalist," Remus continued, "on the dark side but stayed neutral in the War, Cuthbert Montague, also stayed out of the war, but more because, as far as I can tell, he regarded Voldemort and his followers as not being dark enough...and then Madam Bagshot, traditionalist, but light leaning..."

"Narcissa Malfoy," Sirius interrupted, "cousin Cissy has sided with you...and Madam Longbottom...the two of them in a room _together_?" Sirius stared in disbelief. "Things are desperate then... but what about Amelia Bones? I would have thought she would be a..." He trailed off, as Dumbledore shook his head.

"Madam Bones is very firmly on Allesandor's side, I'm afraid. He's done wonders to improve the reputation and credibility of the DMLE internationally, as well as having drastically increased their budget, and forcefully implementing anti-corruption measures Madam Bones devised herself."

Sirius stared. "So what about outside the Wizengamot, the wider Ministry, people like...Arthur Weasley?" he suggested tentatively.

Dumbledore winced slightly. "Allesandor saved the Weasley's youngest and only daughter from a fate worse than death. I can't ask them to stand against him when they feel they owe him a life-debt. Their third son Percy also now works for Carrow as a secretary."

"Mad-eye Moody?" Sirius suggested.

"Alastor..." Dumbledore stroked a hand down his beard in exasperation, "you know how Alastor has always put forward proposals to improve the Auror training program?"

Sirius nodded; some of them had been truly terrifying.

"Allesandor went and...implemented his latest plan with a few additions of his own. The drop-out rate has increased significantly, but I understand the recruits that are coming through are of a very high calibre indeed. And as a result, Alastor won't hear a thing against the man. In fact, he's not really speaking to me at the moment..." he trailed off sadly "...though he did agree to teach Defence, just for this coming school year, so maybe we can reconcile our differences..."

"He's gutted the Wizengamot, hasn't he?" Remus asked, horrified.

"Not that it took much effort on his part, considering the War," Dumbledore said, looking as serious as ever they'd seen him. "From the little Allesandor has told me of his adult life, and some educated reading between the lines of course, he's been trained to infiltrate and subsume governments and the like, but it doesn't appear to be his main area..."

"All right, all right," Sirius held up his hands, "you want help against the unstoppable force of...pig-headedness, I understand, and I will help you...someone has to stand up to him..." His eyes roved around the room until they alighted on something. "If you'll have a go on my new toy," he grinned evilly at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore turned and eyed the object that dominated the centre of the room. "The bucking bronco? It's been _years_ since I've had the opportunity to ride one! May I?" he asked Sirius with a beaming smile.

"Be my guest," Sirius gestured, trying to hide his surprise. Where had his old headmaster come across something like this? His eyes widened as the bronco began to dive and spin and buck, the Headmaster gamely clinging on with one hand, whooping with delight, while waving his pointed hat above his head with the other, for what seemed like an age. Bringing the contraption to a halt, Dumbledore elegantly slipped from its back. "Wonderful, wonderful, do you think Minerva would object if I acquired one for the office?"

"I, erm...well..." Sirius seemed to be at a loss for words.

"I shall consider the matter," Dumbledore smiled brightly at him. "Our next meeting will be a fortnight on Thursday at Hogwarts. We're currently using one of the guest rooms for want of a better place. I'll owl you the details closer to time. Well, I must be off. Thank-you very much for the tea and scones, it's been delightful."

Sirius watched him leave with a look of stunned awe.

"Sticking charm," Dumbledore whispered to Remus with a wink as he walked past. Remus hurriedly hid his laugh with a cough.

OOOOOO

Gulping nervously, Barty Crouch approached the doors to the Great Hall, the sound of the chattering students muffled by their thickness. No, he couldn't afford to show such an emotion, not when so much rested on this desperate, crazy plan he'd concocted to...please...appease the shadow of his once great master.

They'd stayed awhile in a decrepit old house, dusty and barely maintained, on the outskirts of Little Hangleton, the plan being that the Dark Lord would stay there while he infiltrated Hogwarts disguised as- they still had to clarify that part- under cover of the Tri-Wizard tournament that was all over the Daily Prophet (_Diplomatic Triumph for Minister Fudge, _his leg_),_ to gain a very special and heavily protected victim for the Ritual of Resurrection that the Dark Lord wished to undertake; the Boy-who-lived himself...

But there was a large problem his Master seemed to be blind to; he wouldn't be able to see to his Master's needs on a daily basis, not if he was disguised as a professor, and certainly not as a student. And they still hadn't agreed on a suitable person for him to switch with. Somehow he doubted he'd be able to over-power Dumbledore that easily, no matter the Dark Lord's opinions (and rants) on the subject. There was no way around it, the Dark Lord needed to go with him. How? Well, he'd figure that out when he got to it.

While lurking in Diagon Alley during the school rush, and glamoured to the eyeballs, he had made a fortuitous discovery. Hiding in the Household Charms section of Flourish and Blotts, he had overheard two obvious students...

"_...even more boring than last year," the thin mousy-haired lad said._

"_Yeah, but that's History for you, can't expect anything more than that. Might as well use it as extra study time," the obvious Ravenclaw said, adjusting his neat rectangular glasses. His friend sighed heavily. "I loved History before Binns," he said mournfully._

"_So? Cast a silencing charm, or use ear-plugs, and read round the subject," his friend said, completely unsympathetic, "what do you think about the Defence text? Have you had a look yet?"_

"_Yeah," the mousey-haired lad said hefting a leather-bound tome, "it looks pretty interesting. I'm quietly optimistic, though a few of the later chapters remind me of Professor Carrow. Dad said something about maybe it was old Mad-Eye Moody. Apparently, he's taking a year off from his consultancy work at the DMLE."_

"_Hmm, Mad-Eye Moody," the Ravenclaw scowled, "just hope he's not as crazy as..."_

_Barty moved further away along the aisle and picked a random book from the shelf, flicking idly through it in an attempt to look less suspicious. Mad-Eye Moody, eh...he had a bone to pick with old Mad-Eye..._

_A meaningful cough sounded beside him, and he turned to find one of the sales staff standing there, looking at him and the book with a raised eyebrow._

_He looked down at the page. "...healing properties of your menstrual blood. Save this precious outpouring in a crystal vial, and use throughout the coming month as..."_

_He flushed scarlet, juggling the book frantically as he stuffed it back on the shelf, the silver lettering of the title "Mystical Moon-time" glinting maliciously at him from its deep blue silk binding. He stalked away, gathering the tattered remains of his dignity about him as best he could..._

And so a crazy and desperate plan was hatched. He would take the place of Mad-Eye and go to Hogwarts, where he would be ideally placed to kidnap Harry Potter during the chaos surrounding the Tri-Wizard tournament.

_...crouching outside Moody's wards just behind a particularly scratchy hedge, Barty had begun to have second thoughts, but he quickly brushed them aside. What alternative did he have? _

_He cast a bludgeoning curse into the old man's dustbins; if he could lure the old bastard outside... _

_The night lit up as a hail of spell fire spewed forth from the house. Barty threw himself to the ground, quietly cursing paranoid old bastards who hexed first and didn't even ask any questions. So much for luring him outside._

_The darkness of the night returned, still and thick as Barty peeled himself cautiously off the ground, brushing the odd dry leaf off. Now what was he going to do?_

_A door creaked opened, followed by a muttering growl and the uneven stomping of Mad-Eye Moody as he approached. "Bloody cats," Barty distinctly heard him growl. Quick as he could, not believing his luck, he jabbed his wand at the old auror, sending a silent stunner his way. The old man crumpled to the ground, leaving a stunned Barty standing there. It was that easy? No, it couldn't be, there had to be some sort of catch. Shaking himself, he leapt into action, stunning Moody again as a safety precaution, and quickly levitating him into the house. Ten minutes later he had polyjuiced himself, stripped the old man of his clothing and physical aids for his personal benefit, and even found a convenient place to store him for easy access; ah, the joys of fancy-dancy multi-compartment trunks. In fact now he came to think about it, he could bring his master with him like this, he grinned to himself, Moody's scarred and craggy visage turning his expression into something truly terrible. This could actually work..._

...yet now he was having second thoughts. He pushed the doors open with a dramatic gesture, the resulting boom echoing around the Great Hall. All eyes turned to him, students and teachers alike, a surprising number of them reaching for their wands and pointing them in his direction. What were they expecting, a Death Eater? Barty sniggered internally at his little joke as he stomped his way up the hall, the students watching him cautiously with narrowed eyes. Was it him, or was there something off with their reaction?

And now the hard part. Dumbledore came round the High Table approaching, shaking his hand, murmuring polite enquires as to his health. Heart thumping in his ears Barty wasn't sure what he said in return, something about "bloody cats" but the old man seemed to accept it, and led him to a chair. Cold sweat trickled down his back as Barty glared out at the students, as they gave him a lukewarm round of applause. It was going to be a miracle if he survived this.

He carefully selected a piece of sausage as the feast got underway; there was no way he could face anything more at the moment, not without being sick. Cautiously, he sniffed the thing, surreptitiously casting a few of his repertoire of revealing charms. Best to be on the safe side, particularly since... he glanced down the table, and Snape glared back. He sneered at the traitorous Potions Master. Snape jerked his head back to his plate, poking at his meal viciously.

Barty pulled the hip-flask out, taking a carefully mouthful of the polyjuice potion within, shuddering he went back to his food, the foul aftertaste doing nothing for his appetite. Now where was the Potter brat?

The Gryffindors, rowdy as ever with a "how long can you balance a pastie on your nose" competition going on at the far end, familiar flashes of red hair that must be the multitudinous Weasley offspring, the Longbottom lad, his eye widening in surprise as suddenly a juvenile grizzly bear sat in his place, cries of "Neville!" drifting over, a few other vaguely familiar faces, but no miniature of James bloody Potter. Strange; he frowned, he could have sworn...

He turned his attention to the Hufflepuffs. Maybe loyalty trumped bravery, for surely the Potter brat took after his parents' personalities as well as appearance, and whatever else was said about James and Lily, they were just as loyal as they were brave. Merlin, the Bones chit looked like her dad, and who was that with her...no, he didn't recognise the blonde lass at all, though one day she may very well be a looker. Lots of...well, it was all very _Hufflepuff_ and no familiar Potter mess of black hair at all.

Maybe the boy took more after his mother; she'd been incredibly talented, top of her class, bright, intelligent, inquisitive, creative; such a loss, despite her blood status. He looked over the Ravenclaw table as they gathered in groups for quiet but fierce discussion, or ate absentmindedly while reading books. There were a number of students with dark hair, but no Potter...

Surely not...no, he couldn't have, could he? He dragged his eyes over to the Slytherin table. So many students there looked so achingly familiar- Millicent Bulstrode, looking so like her mother, but with her father's build, poor child. Maybe she would grow into it...Gregory Goyle looking serious and thoughtful-and _reading a book!?_ He definitely didn't take after _his_ father, no matter how much he looked like him. The _lack_ of familiar faces was also startling. Where was the Malfoy heir? Surely Lucius would have sent his son to Hogwarts? But still no Potter, so where was he?

Had Dumbledore and the Ministry hidden him away somewhere for safety? What was going on? He glanced at the Headmaster beside him, deep in discussion with Professor McGonagall, something about a meeting...possibly political. Moody was bound to get invited, after all everyone knew the two were close friends and allies.

So where was Potter? If he couldn't get accesses to him, then all this plotting, planning, and destroying his taste-buds was all for nothing. He growled to himself, carefully eyeing the tiny Charms Professor who sat on his other side. The man was so deep in conversation with Argus Filch of people, talking about...magical theory...and colour change charms. To his eternal surprise, Filch pulled out a wand, and began to attempt the third year level charm under Flitwick's enthusiastic supervision. Wasn't Filch a squib? What in Merlin's name was going on?

"The start of a new year, all these fresh new faces; I always look forward to this time of year," the Charms Professor's squeaky voice said next to him.

Barty nodded, grunting. Best not to say too much or he'd give himself away, but on the other hand... "Missing faces," he grunted to the little man, "no Malfoy," he scowled.

"Ah yes," Flitwick winced a little, "yes, well, the young Malfoy heir was a student here two years ago but Madam Malfoy transferred him to Beauxbatons after the untimely death of his father...at such a young age too, tragic..." he trailed off with a sad smile. "Of course, there are all sorts of rumours doing the rounds that the late Mr Malfoy's demise was, err, assisted..."

The cold sweat froze on his back, as Barty's mind whirled in alarm and confusion. Lucius Malfoy...dead...murdered. Fortunately, Flitwick had been distracted by a question from Filch. What else had he missed during his imprisonment by his father, _vital _potentiallyplan-changing information...

Time to break out the veritaserum, and question that old bastard Moody properly...

Something small and hard struck him on the head. Barty picked it up and carefully examined it...a little rubber duck, black with glowing red eyes...student prank all ready? He glared out over the tables as more of the odd muggle objects came raining down turning into a veritable downpour, the students casting shielding charms or holding books over their heads or even digging out umbrellas, not seeming at all fazed by this curious event. Was this a regular occurrence? What the _hell_ was going on?

oOo

Snape stared down the table to the grizzled veteran auror. If he was right, that odour was...hmmm...leeches, stewed...and the tang of fluxweed, and boomslang skin...his eyes widened in realisation. Polyjuice potion. He couldn't be completely certain, he'd need to double check, but was the Auror actually who he seemed...and who should he inform of his misgivings?

He eyed the Headmaster a moment, who was busily organising his anti-Carrow party with Minerva. Then a thought struck him, a wonderful idea guaranteed to annoy the maximum number of people. He grinned into his coffee-disguised-as-pumpkin-juice. Yes, Carrow would appreciate knowing about this development at Hogwarts...

oOo

Barty frantically scrabbled through his potions cabinet...where was it...where was it...bruise balm...blood replenishers...hair hirsute...here it was, typically hiding at the back. He dashed over to the trunk as fast as the wooden leg allowed and lowered himself down, the Dark Lord watching him beadily from behind the day's issue of the Daily Prophet, the effect spoilt somewhat by the sturdy pine high-chair, the evil box by its side.

Moody lay comatose on a pile of blankets in the corner, shivering slightly. Barty smirked slightly; it was nice seeing the old bastard suffer for a change, though if he continued like this...Barty crouched down painfully, cursing the stupid wooden limb as it stuck out at an absurd angle...the old man's skin was cold and clammy, blast it. Moody wasn't as young as he was...if his health failed and he suddenly died, well he'd be up in the air without a broom as the saying went. People weren't meant to be made to lie still for weeks at a time, but what else could he do? Maybe he should make him walk around a bit, lend him the leg or something.

But on to more pressing problems.

He carefully placed three drops of the veritaserum on Moody's tongue and commanded him to swallow, watching as his eyes glazed even further.

"What is your name?" he snapped at the old man.

"Alastor Moody," Moody croaked, obviously trying to fight the effects of the potion, his face pale and sweaty, the scars that ravaged it standing out starkly.

Barty gave a small sigh of relief, it was working.

"How did Lucius Malfoy die?" he asked. Behind him there was a rustle as the Dark Lord stopped his pretence of reading the paper, giving the pair his full attention.

Moody grinned horribly, revealing crooked teeth. "He had a stroke in the night...two years ago...couldn't have happened to a...better person," he cackled.

"Was the death suspicious?" Barty asked, desperate to confirm Professor Fliwick's suspicions.

Moody broke into a mad cackle. "Oh yes," he grinned broadly at his captor. Barty sneered back in loathing, a sour feeling settling in his stomach.

"Who do you suspect of causing Lucius Malfoy's...death?" he ground out.

The old man smirked up at him, "Allesandor Darius Carrow...but there's no proof...just circumstance...and what...came...later," he forced out, fighting the veritaserum.

"What?" a furious voice hissed being him, Barty turned to find the Dark Lord furiously leaning over the tray of the high chair. "What?" he screamed, "who is this? Who dared destroy one of my faithful?"

"Your worst nightmare," Moody laughed hoarsely.

Barty hurriedly took control again, before things could get nasty. "The Crabbe boy isn't at Hogwarts. Why?"

"He died in a suicide pact with his mother," Moody stated, his expression flat. "They wanted to avoid the shame Augustus had brought on the family."

Barty swallowed nervously, cold sweat trickling down his spine. He ploughed on with the questions, asking after those he'd know closely, then the names of those he had met only occasionally, his Master sounding more and more like an angry kettle in the background, trying to acquire as much information as he could before the potion wore off, Moody's laughter becoming ever nastier.

With a flick of his wand, he hit the old Auror with a stunning spell, just as the shredded and mangled remains of the Daily Prophet flew past his head, hitting the wall opposite.

"Everyone, everything," the Dark Lord screamed, "all removed, all destroyed," he breathed heavily red eyes blazing evilly. "Everything I've built up over _decades_," he hissed, "destroyed in less than _two years_ by one man. I will admit I murdered a hell of a lot of people to get to where I did. And I was hounded by the Aurors for it, their most _wanted_!" he screamed, "this..._this_ _man..._has also murdered scores of people, we can all read between the lines. And what do they do? _Make him Senior Under-Secretary_!" He panted with rage. "How? _Why_? Has Magical Britain lost what little sense it had left?"

Barty swallowed nervously, feeling as if the world had been kicked out from under him. "My Lord...ermm...he is suspected of having something to do with the previous incumbent's untimely demise."

He sat shivering on the floor; this was a disaster of epic proportions. Moody and Dumbledore had had a falling out over politics within the DMLE, and he didn't feel confident enough with his charade to attempt to patch it up. The risk of discovery was too high. Someone had "broken into" Azkaban and executed every single last Death Eater incarcerated within. The Lestranges were all gone...the thought of Bella dead and forgotten in some rancid cell...he wiped a tear away. The rest of the Death Eaters were either very publicly dead, suspected dead, or hadn't been heard from or seen in public for well over a year. Their contacts within the Ministry as well as the criminal under-world were in disarray, and then worst of all, the Boy-who-lived was somewhere so safe even Moody didn't know of its location...and all of this mess pointed back, in one way or another to this shadowy figure...Allesandor Darius Carrow...

He ran a shaking hand over his face wincing at the unfamiliarity of the mangled nose. Where in Merlin's name did they go from here? The nasty pins-and-needles in his fingers wrenched his mind away from its miserable path. Oh drat, the polyjuice potion! Frantically, he grabbed for the hip-flask and took a large swig.

"Idiot," a sibilant mutter came from behind him. Barty turned to find his master hunched down in his robes, hood pulled up around his face, red eyes gleaming malevolently. "If we can't have Harry Potter, then this..._Carrow_ individual will do. He appears to have taken apart my followers and my associates, and their resources. It's only a matter of time before he is declared a Dark Lord himself. I cannot, _will not _abide a rival." The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes in anger. "If this doesn't qualify him as my mortal enemy, then nothing will. Well, don't just sit there, find him and use him for the plan instead."

Barty nodded quickly; oh hell, more research.

OOOOOO

The morning was grey and dull, the Breakfast Room lit by a watery light that promised nothing but miserable drizzle, glancing off the angular Italian glassware and making the bright and cheerful wall paintings look almost garish in its cold blue light. The brisk wind blew the first few fallen leaves around the courtyard garden with its formal parterre, and really, it fit his mood perfectly.

Timothy eyed the envelope warily; most of Carrow's mail went directly to the Ministry (via owl), or to his office at Aquila Industries (via Royal Mail). Very rarely did he receive personal letters...but this was something very specific. He stared at the logo on the envelope; Keele University...oh dear...

He sighed heavily, and it had all been done with the best of intentions...

_...Carrow had been persuaded, eventually, that he couldn't take Artemis with him on the week long residential school of his Open University course. And so they had spent the best part of a week looking after a bewildered and upset tiger. They had worked hard at keeping her distracted and entertained, taking her for twice daily runs, throwing tyres for her to maul, taking her with them wherever they went...the Ministry...Aquila Industries...by the last day of Carrow's summer school they were all exhausted, and Timothy was at the end of his tether. So in an act of utter stupidity, he loaded the pining feline into the back of the Hummer and drove up to the University to meet the giant lump._

_Artemis had been as good as gold, strolling at his side as they walked through the lush wooded grounds of the University to their meeting place with Carrow, a modern building, brick and glass, which housed the refectory._

_Timothy scowled in annoyance at the giant man, who was clearly visible, being himself. Unfortunately, someone else had also seen him. _

_The large feline sprinted away, he and Wulfric desperately giving chase...only to come to a skidding halt, watching in horror as she ploughed straight towards the large window, Carrow whirling round in surprise, as two St Bernards worth of cat hit the large pane at roughly forty miles an hour, shards of glass raining down in a tinkling cacophony. Artemis, completely unbothered, threw herself at her daddy, turning into a squirming kittenish pile of fur and paws and teeth, muttering and huffing excitedly, as Carrow murmured softly to her, massaging behind her ears, hugging her in his lap._

_Timothy carefully stepped through the gap, slowly approaching the pair, glass crunching under his feet, doing his best to ignore the wide-eyed stares of the numerous spectators, whose breakfasts had been so rudely interrupted._

"_She missed you, you know," he said as Carrow tried unsuccessfully to avoid an affectionate lick across the face._

"_Oh, that's just typical," a voice came from the crowd of spectators, "trust the giant prat to have a pet tiger..."_

...and things really hadn't got any better from there. He was certainly going to be avoiding _that_ part of the Midlands for the near future. All things considered...yes...he carefully propped the letter up in front of Carrow's usual seat.

Felix dashed past, laces flapping, making a bee-line for the toast and the marmite jar, Artemis insinuating her way through the door after him.

"Laces, Felix," Timothy said, almost by reflex, as he opened the day's edition of the _Hollow's Herald. _Smirking slightly at the grumbling from the other end of the table, he relaxed with the news. Marauding swans camping on lawns...a vandalised bus shelter...a thief managing to steal £26.42 from a corner shop...and the local Scout troupe were doing a sponsored canoe paddle to raise money for the Mary Winkle Hospice. It was all so mundane and normal, refreshingly dull and small.

"Have you thought of any ideas for a birthday present for Tiffany yet?" he asked idly as he gave the local sports a casual glance over.

Felix hummed and hahed a moment. "I don't know what to get her," he said, "she's a _girl_ and we've only met a few times so..."

"I can always ask her mum for suggestion," Timothy said as he turned back to the crossword, "or you could just ask her yourself on Saturday...as long as it's not a Centurion tank..."

Felix giggled. "Okay."

Actually, that was a terrible thought, particularly since Carrow was capable of acquiring one. He could just imagine Trudi's face on finding a tank parked on her front lawn.

"Felix," Wulfric's exasperated voice came from the doorway, "is that even good for her?"

Timothy glared suspiciously over the top of the paper, dreading a repeat of the marmalade incident. Felix was sat there with toast in one hand, marmite spoon in the other, Artemis licking it clean. She turned towards him, eyes half closed, tongue protruding as far as it would go.

Timothy sighed in exasperation. "Felix, I'm not even sure she's enjoying that...and how much have you fed her anyway?" He glared at the wayward cat-boy. Felix's ears twitched back guiltily.

"A few spoons," he mumbled, "maybe three...or four...or erm, six...seven?" He shuffled guiltily on his chair.

"And you put the spoon back in the jar each time, didn't you," Timothy sighed heavily.

"Oh, yuck, Felix," Wulfric exclaimed, "that spoon's got to be covered with tiger slobber...disgusting...no marmite for me this morning."

"Who's been feeding Artemis what?" a deep booing growl sounded from behind them. Carrow strode forward, newly washed and dressed in what he felt was appropriate for the office. The faint odour announced his recent presence in the Chapel and, Timothy eyed the large man's disgruntled expression, an argument with his father's portrait. It was almost amusing how alike in personality the two of them were.

"Marmite," Timothy sighed as Carrow picked up the envelope curiously, "it shouldn't do her any harm...I think." He grimaced as Felix sneakily gave her another spoon.

Carrow grumbled to himself as he carefully opened the envelope, the room descending into the usual morning quiet.

"Plate glass window," he suddenly announced with a scowl. "The University has billed me for their window."

Timothy looked up from his second cup of coffee. "Hmm, I suppose they were waiting for their insurance company, must be difficult trying to explain that a tiger ran through your window."

Carrow gave him a strange look. "They had camera footage, why would there be a problem?"

Timothy opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it; it was doubtful the great big lump would understand. "Never mind," he said, and went back to the paper.

"I have the designs for our display at the Weapons Expo next spring finished," Carrow suddenly announced, "I thought it expedient to do it now so the displays could be finished in time."

Timothy eyed him suspiciously. "And of course the Board need to see them and approve them," he said, not trusting Carrow's sense of taste an inch.

"A formality, of course," Carrow nodded, as he picked up the next paper on the pile.

"They need to check the appropriateness of the designs, make sure that we won't get banned from the Expo...permanently, for breaking the rules," Timothy watched the big lump with narrowed eyes as he browsed through the FT.

"Rules?" Carrow asked.

"Yes, rules," Timothy said, sipping his coffee, "nothing that glorifies war or blatantly promotes violence is permitted."

Carrow gave him a funny look over the paper. "That's ridiculous, we're an arms manufactorium, for Throne's sake."

Timothy shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

Carrow shook his head in disgust. "Are you ready, Felix?"

Felix bounced out of his seat, grabbing a rucksack Timothy hadn't noticed. He stared in growing consternation at the white shirt, the royal blue jumper and grey trousers and the striped blue and grey tie.

"That's the local primary school uniform...Geoffrey Sutton Junior School...what are you up to?" Timothy snapped at Carrow. "You _know_ we can't let Felix mix with the mundane world freely, he's just too obviously magical."

Carrow blinked down at him. "How utterly ridiculous," he growled, "Felix is first and foremost a child, as such he needs the company of other children, and as to his being..._magical_ in appearance, utter rubbish."

Timothy snarled in frustration, trying to be as intimidating as he could, getting right into Carrow's personal space. "So you don't think Felix's extra appendages are going to arouse curiosity and even outright hostility? I don't want Felix to suffer any more because of...because of..." He turned to look at the boy in question, who was watching their argument intently, his tail twitching back and forth.

"And how will Felix grow strong?" Carrow countered. "He needs to learn to stand up for himself, to be proud of who he is...he has already made great strides towards this, and since a number of his young friends from karate will also be in his class, I'm sure Felix will be perfectly all right." He smiled smugly.

Timothy blanched in horror; _karate classes?!_ When had Carrow managed that, the sneaky...underhanded...giant...great big...

"The Statute of Secrecy," he ground out, gritting his teeth in frustrated anger, "Felix is blatantly magical, so we will be violating the Statute."

Carrow sneered. "What a fuss over nothing. Felix's physicality falls well within the range of human normalcy. I've seen far more extreme bodily modifications over the years."

Timothy began to object.

"_Enough,_" Carrow snapped, "come along Felix, we mustn't be late for your first day at school." Turning, he exited the Breakfast room in a swirl of embossed leather robes, Felix trotting after him, giving Timothy an apologetic shrug as he went past.

Slumping in the nearest chair, Timothy buried his face in his hands. The fallout from this...he dreaded to think.

"He really doesn't care, does he," Wulfric cheerfully commented from across the table, munching on a slice of toast.

Timothy glared.

OOOOOO

Teaching had been a strange experience so far, not helped by the Castle being far stranger than he remembered. There had been several reoccurrences of the rain of rubber ducks and...it was daft really, but everywhere he went he felt as if he was being watched by something or someone...but no matter.

The first and second years had been much as he had expected, the eager faces, the enthusiasm, and the complete lack of experience. Had he ever been like that, that green and young? It seemed hard to remember himself and all his friends so youthful, so inexperienced...his heart gave an unpleasant jolt, as a particularly nasty part of his mind gleefully pointed out that they were all dead...or gone...or disappeared...except for Snape, he thought sourly. How the hell had _he_ managed to oil his way out of trouble? He jerked his mind away from that train of thought; he needed to keep focused, damn it...

...but the third years had all been rather skittish, while the seventh years had been rather...highly strung. He'd nearly had his head blown off by a _Hufflepuff, _of all people, for moving too suddenly, too near her...

He glared at the students as they filed in; yes, he definitely needed to keep focused today. This was to be his first class with the fourth year Gryffindors, the once classmates of the elusive Boy-who-lived. He smirked to himself; he'd got a hell of a class planned for them, one that they would never forget.

"Constant vigilance!" he roared as the students settled down at their desks. A few drew their wands, while throwing themselves behind cover, the rest dived under their desks with a scream.

Barty froze, that wasn't the reaction he was expecting; what was going on here? "In your seats now!" he roared, putting his question aside. The students scrambled on to their chairs, watching him with a mixture of expectation and resigned horror.

He scowled to himself. "As a favour to the Headmaster and to provide extra security because of the Triwizard tournament, I'm here to teach you Defence Against the Dark Arts, for one year only! To equip you with the skills and knowledge so that you do not fall afoul of the realities of the world beyond your cozy school-days." He limped back and forth in front of the class. "I understand you had Remus Lupin as professor last year. From his notes he's given you a thorough grounding in the basics, minor dark-creatures, magical household pests and the like. I am here to build on that." He paused in front of the black-board, glaring impressively at the class.

The class stared back at him, their reactions a spectrum ranging from acute boredom to gut-wrenching anxiety. A boy at the back yawned widely. Barty scowled. "Which is why," he glared at the miscreant, "I will be demonstrating the Unforgivables. I think you're ready for it, and so does the Headmaster... yes? You have a question?" he asked.

The student who'd raised their hand nodded. Was it a boy or a girl? Barty huffed in annoyance, he really couldn't tell sometimes nowadays, what with boys with long hair and girls with short; what was the world coming to?

"Are we going to be learning the Imperius curse?" the student asked breathlessly, an excited grin on her face that would have done Bella proud.

Barty blinked in surprise, he could understand a Slytherin asking that question, but a _Gryffindor?_

"Hermione," the red-head, definitely a boy, next to her hissed.

"Miss?" he asked, scowling at this strange Gryffindor.

"Granger," she replied, "Hermione Granger."

"Miss Granger, we are will be merely studying the Unforgivable curses," he put the jars with the specially caught spiders down on the desk with a series of satisfying thumps. "After all, they are _highly_ _illegal_ for good reason, and the use of any one will gain you a nice long stay in Azkaban...a place I can assure you you do not want to end up." He glared impressively over the class.

The class stared back, cynical and bored. "Not practical then," someone distinctly muttered.

Barty growled, bloody teenagers, no respect. "Constant Vigilance!" he barked causing the brats to jump in their seats, glaring; a few even had the cheek to roll their eyes.

"Who can tell me what the three Unforgivable curses are?" he snarled as he unscrewed the lid of one of the jars efficiently decanting the spider onto his desk-top. A few raised hands greeted his question, but the rest...Barty glowered; the peculiar Gryffindor girl had sneaked a book out of her bag and was reading it under the desk; _Krav Maga for the Martial Artist,_ whatever that was. Her desk partner, expression glazed, was looking at anywhere except where he should..."Miss Granger, instead of reading your book, perhaps you can answer my question!" he roared.

The girl startled and glared. "The Imperius curse, used to subvert another's will to your own, enabling you to control their actions from a distance...like a puppet," she smirked slightly.

"Correct," Barty snapped. This Granger girl was hit-witch material...or worse, he thought darkly; what _was_ Hogwarts coming to? He enlarged the spider with a deft flick of his wand. "As I will now demonstrate..."

oOo

Barty waited until the last student had trailed out of the classroom before venting his feelings, kicking his desk with a snarl, and promptly landing on his bottom as he overbalanced. He dragged himself to his chair, cursing darkly; what _was_ with these children? He'd demonstrated all _three_ of the Unforgivables to the unappreciative brats, who'd all sat there with an air of polite boredom. One had even had the audacity to fall asleep using his text book for a pillow. He'd given the blasted brat detention. The Imperius had only interested Granger the budding little sociopath, the Cruciatus had received cynical laughter, and as for their reactions to the Killing curse itself...to say they had been indifferent was putting it mildly.

And that wasn't the only thing they were indifferent about; the reception the announcement of the Triwizard tournament had received was luke-warm at best, it even seemed to be attracting some resentment due to the cancellation of the usual Quidditch. _Children_...there was no pleasing them...

And when he'd asked if there were any questions at the end of the class, he'd been bombarded with them all right, just not a single one related to the actual class itself.

Were there going to be any duels?

Would they get any opportunities to kill creatures in class?

Could they use the duelling pit for Defence Club, please?

When was he going to oversee the first official meeting of the Defence Club?

Was he going to join them for their morning exercises?

Could he bring in a live acromantula for the Duelling pit...for them to fight...please?

He'd snarled and growled his way through them, set four feet of essay on the history of the Unforgivables, due next week, and sent the little brats packing. He slumped down in his chair; where had they got the idea for that last one from? Absolutely crazy!

"Alastor, are you all right?" a concerned voice asked. Barty looked up to find the Headmaster himself standing in the doorway of the classroom, exactly the last person he wanted to see at the moment. He swallowed nervously. "Just feeling more my age than I'd like...blasted brats asked me for a live acromantula for the Defence Club, of all things."

The Headmaster chuckled as he strolled in and perched on the edge of a desk. "Ah yes, I'm not entirely surprised," he smiled.

Barty scowled. "Who's been teaching them? I can't imagine young Remus giving them ideas like that, far too sensible, nor that spineless fop Lockhart, whatever happened to him..." he glared at the older man with narrowed eyes.

"I'm afraid Mr Lockhart had to leave us rather suddenly," Dumbledore said, his expression serious, "and the interim professor I was able to acquire was rather...eccentric, though very capable." He smiled merrily.

Interim professor? This was the first time anyone had mentioned anything about such a person. He should ask...but shouldn't it be common knowledge...but not discussed much...and he was expected to already know, and if he asked...

"Nice weather we're having today, unseasonably warm," the Headmaster gazed out of the window at the blue sky beyond.

Barty groaned softly to himself; looked like he was going to have to break out the Veritaserum yet again.

OOOOOO

The sound of grinding teeth broke the soft sound of snoring that had descended on the History of Magic class shortly after it had begun. Ron shot Hermione a concerned glance as he carefully took notes from the textbook. One of the Ravenclaw Defence Club members had recommended this approach to him, along with a little tutorial on silencing charms and the like. History had become bearable, just...

A small snarl followed by a sharp snap distracted him again, and he turned to find Hermione sitting there, hands in fists, her quill snapped in half, glaring furiously at their spectral professor.

"Hermione," he murmured in concern, "wha..."

"Just look around you," Hermione snarled, "just look at how pointless this class is, and History is _important_."

Ron eyed her warily, but glanced round anyway; as usual the majority of the students were asleep or comatose to some degree, apart from himself and Hermione...and Neville, who was busily being a bear. "Not precisely constructive, I see your point, but it's been like this for years, so..." He shrugged.

"Yes, it's been like this for _years_," Hermione snarled, making Seamus startle awake. Looking round, the boy caught Hermione's furious gaze and ducked round, attempting to look busy. "We need to do something about it, like permanently fix it!" Casting some extra privacy charms, she turned to look Ron in the eye.

Ron watched her warily, noting the fanatical gleam in her eyes; when Hermione got on her soap-box...

"And I know exactly what we need to do, too," she said, beginning to smile.

Ron suddenly understood what a seal faced with a shark felt like. "We?" he said nervously.

"Yes, _we._" She narrowed her eyes. "I helped you with your little campaign last year, so now it's my turn."

Well, he couldn't deny that, could he? He sighed. "What do we need to do...and when?" he asked, resigned to his fate.

Hermione tugged on her thread wrapped braid, the gold skull beads glinting in the drab light, the lone survivor of the massacre of her hair, chewing her bottom lip. "Hmm, I just need to clarify a few details as to how, but when...definitely Halloween," she gave a decisive nod, "it's a magically powerful time, so it will aid us in our aim, but also it's when the Tri-Wizard contestants will be selected. Everything will be really busy and hectic, so we'll easily be able to slip away."

"The Tri-Wizard tournament," Ron groaned, he'd forgotten all about it, "they cancelled Quidditch for _that_," he grumbled.

OOOOOO

Why, oh why, was he doing this? The wooden leg squelched nastily as it sank into a muddy puddle, succeeding in splashing dirty water into his boot. Not that it made much difference, since he was already soaked to the skin, chilly water making its slow and miserable way down his spine.

And yet...

...the Defence Club stampeded past, shouting "one, two, one, two," as they did so...

...they seemed to be actually enjoying themselves, wearing heavy black boots, and weird blotchy green muggle looking clothes (except Granger who was in black), carrying heavy backpacks. Some of them even had funny looking helmets, those without making up for their lack with ugly sludge green knitted hats.

And they did this every morning, regardless of the weather, the mad idiots, and he couldn't say no because he was Moody, and old Mad-eye "Murdering Bastard" Moody would absolutely love this.

Sometimes, he hated his life.

OOOOOO

"Well, this is a complete cluster fuck isn't it?" Fitch commented conversationally to the others. Corporal Faulks gave a sarcastic huff, as some of the others laughed cynically. Fitch glanced at Matthew in concern. Ever since _that_ incident...well, they were in trouble that went without saying, like huge career ending, buried in epic shit sort of trouble, since they'd gone missing and out of communication for close on twelve hours, picked off the end of the patrol. When Patrol leader had realised what had happened and had turned back to rescue them they had already been kidnapped by the Corp's bloody little brother...stupid little sod...so that was a whole other pile of shit they'd landed in.

When they had returned, battered, bloodied and looking the worse for wear, he'd missed the worst of it, thanks to that bloody injury. He'd have preferred to have been conscious and standing alongside the rest of the squad during that initial chewing out, but no, he'd woken up in the hospital a day later, to find some very grim faced gentlemen with red berets wanting to have a little chat, and things had gone downhill from there...

Thank sweet Mary and Jesus they'd got all those photos. Ed had shot nearly ten films worth in the end, despite his moaning, none of which was going to end up in the photo-book he was trying to put together (even his negatives had been confiscated), and they'd kept a careful record of exactly where the giant armoured nut-case was taking them to, plus it had been incredibly helpful that he'd decided to burn that town down. Very difficult thing to miss, a burning town...

...if they hadn't got all that evidence backing them up there would have been no way anyone would have believed them...like, zombie attack, no way...

They'd been completely banned from talking to anyone about their weird adventure on pain of...dishonourable discharge as far as he could tell...or could have been just outright disappearance, considering the scary people in expensive suits who'd turned up with the Military Police the second time they were questioned...

And because they couldn't explain to anyone, they were now virtual lepers with the rest of the platoon. It was depressing in the extreme.

"The worst bit," Mattie growled glaring into the depths of his coffee mug, "the worst bit is the motor-pool's sent me to Coventry because that giant bloody _twat_ left a great big hand-shaped dent in the top of the APC!" He looked up. "As if I...we, deliberately _asked _him to do it...and I can't even tell them..."

The squad watched sympathetically as the Corporal finally began to rant. He'd been so quiet since this had all began that they'd started to get a bit concerned about him.

"...is going to go on for months. It's only a matter of time before we end up giving a bunch of big-wigs a tour of the countryside, you mark my words."

"Make a change from being confined to barracks," Ed grumbled before rapidly wilting under the Corporal's glare.

Fitch shifted uncomfortably on top of the crate he'd nabbed as a seat. Seriously, they all needed something to cheer them up, something to take their mind off the bloody crazy situation they'd been dumped in by a bunch of civvies...whatever they were. "I know Timmie the Civvie sort of joked about it," he began, attracting a series of frowns from the others, "but what about we actually write that _When Zombies Attack_ manual?" He ducked down, pretending to be more interested in his tea when members of another squad went past, glaring at them suspiciously. Matthew and the others glared back.

Fitch gazed down at his arm, eying the two pale horseshoe scars that now marred his dark skin. "My mum's going to do her nut when she sees this," he muttered. He looked up at the others, the uncomfortable silence almost physically tangible. "So what about it then?" he asked, "cause I really want to avoid a repeat of this," he held up his scarred forearm for all to see, "and at least it's something constructive to do..." He looked around the others.

"Huh, so..." Mattie said slowly, "recognising the uncanny, their strengths and weaknesses, dealing with injuries..."

Fitch nodded, "yeah, exactly...best ways to exploit their weaknesses, all that sort of thing."

Matthew looked thoughtful for a moment. "Alright, let's do it..."

OOOOOO

Barty looked over his shoulder. The corridor was deserted, so he didn't have to be subtle about it, but still he couldn't find who was watching him. It was really getting on his nerves now, even giving him uneasy dreams, disturbing his sleep...he spun round wand raised...nothing, just a very ruffled and crabby looking portrait, who glared at him, harrumphing to themselves, before ducking out of their frame. Barty watched them go, blinking in bewilderment; he must be more tired than he thought. For a moment there, he thought he'd seen a gigantic battle scarred man with a huge grizzled beard with bone totems in it...in strange grey armour...he shook his head. Obviously he should risk a sleep potion tonight if he was starting to hallucinate like that...

He carried on to his office, heart heavy, to give yet another likely to be poorly received report to his Master...

"What do you mean, they're stealing weapons?" the Dark Lord snapped.

Barty cringed slightly, as he made Moody more comfortable after his evening exercise; no point in killing the mad old Auror too soon. "The Defence Club...they're scavenging weapons from all over the Castle, and erm, fighting with them during the evenings."

The Dark Lord gave him a funny look, which only further enhanced his appearance of an angry flayed baby. "Like _muggles_," he hissed, "how very peculiar...and any more news of my wand?"

This was the moment he'd been dreading. Barty swallowed nervously, as he steeled himself, before relaying the results of his latest Veritserum fuelled interrogation held surreptitiously during his evening walking of the prisoner. It was risky, but paying dividends handsomely.

"Master, your wand was discovered in the procession of Peter Pettigrew shortly after he was arrested," he shifted uncomfortably, "and Mr Carrow was present...and insisted on destroying your wand when it was identified as such. He used a small controlled burst of, ermm, fiend-fyre. According to Moody's memories, the destruction was total; there wasn't even any ash."

He watched worriedly as the Dark Lord froze, hunching down in his robes, his gaze going to the box, the hideous evil box...

"My Lord?" Barty whispered, concerned...

OOOOOO

Sirius sat back in the comfortable over upholstered chair and watched in absolute fascination as Madam Longbottom and cousin _Cissy_ actually managed to converse politely, without wands drawn or anything! He hadn't realised that things were going to be this entertaining when he'd agreed to join in with Dumbledore's little political group...they were _actually _working together, a little stilted and stiffly to be sure, but...he hid a grin. It was nothing short of a miracle. He gazed over his shoulder towards the window half expecting a troll in a tutu to fly past, but no, just the grey sky promising yet more drizzle and the dark and increasingly leafless trees of the Forbidden Forest. Blinking, he returned to the conversation.

"...ridiculous idea," Ptolemy Chant was saying, "all the fuss and bother of transporting our children to one location just to teach them their letters and numbers and the like...and how are they supposed to learn their family traditions?"

A childhood full of lots of other children. Sirius sighed, until he'd gone to Hogwarts there had just been him and Reggie, with occasional meetings with various cousins and more distant relatives, but all of it in the most stultifying conditions, with his mother breathing down his neck, controlling his every move. No wonder he'd gone as wild as he had. Hogwarts by comparison had been a breath of fresh air...quite literally...and ending up in Gryffindor with James, even further away from the suffocating influence of his family...it had all ensured there weren't exactly many stopping charms on his behaviour as it were. How different would things have been if he'd been able to go to school that much earlier?

"I think it would have been brilliant starting school so early," he said wistfully butting into the circular argument that was currently making its way round the table, "a day spent with lots of other magical children learning together, then...out in the playground running around with thirty...forty, maybe more, children...playing, talking...Lily explained the muggle school system to me once," his smile turned pained, "it's always appealed to me..."

The others looked at him oddly, even Elphias Dodge. Dumbledore leaned back smiling beatifically at the small gathering, apparently content to see where this would lead.

"What about family traditions, Siri? They're such an important part of any child's pre-Hogwarts education." Narcissa pointed out, giving him that long suffering look.

"Well, if it's run like a muggle primary school," Sirius explained, "they have classes Mon..."

"That's beside the point," Ptolemy snapped, "part of the Undersecretary's plan seemed to be the inclusion of _muggleborns _ as early as possible...which I'm not sure I entirely approve of at all, watering down our culture and heritage," he grumbled scowling.

"Ptolemy, it goes both ways you know," Dumbledore gently reminded the other man with an admonishing look, "this could be a golden opportunity to avoid some of the difficulties some of our muggle-born students experience each year. They would understand Wizarding culture better and, most importantly have made friends, before they entered Hogwarts." He adjusted his glasses. "I must admit that on the surface dear Allesandor's proposal does rather appeal to me, but the man is anything but straightforward...there must be some ulterior motive to this...hmm...indoctrination maybe...moving on." He looked round the odd group meaningfully. "Allesandor is of course continuing with his anti-corruption drive within the Ministry...which is highly laudable, if uncomfortable..." He sorted through the sizable pile of parchment in front of him, a list of everything he was aware Carrow currently involved in. "Does the man ever sleep? He's involved in so many things...next item...hmm...not entirely related to Mr Carrow...it is distressing to note just how many of the Wizengamot seats are actually empty, and with Mr Carrow's investigations alongside the DMLE, a number of previously occupied seats have been revealed to have been acquired under...less that desirable conditions, emptying even more of course." He looked around the table his expression grim. "Which means it is increasingly easy for Mr Carrow to acquire his needed majority vote." He sighed heavily. "I've been talking to Aleister Mayhew and apparently Allesandor," he rubbed his forehead in exasperation, "has been making oh-so not-so-subtle overtures towards him and those Wizengamot representatives who still maintain some degree of neutrality..."

"Aleister Mayhew? Oh dear," Dodge exclaimed, "no wonder he looked so hunted, I approached him too."

"As did I," Narcissa added, looking slightly guilty.

Sirius grimaced. "He told me to bugger off, and _then_ he tried hexing me," he scowled, "and I'd done my best to be really polite and proper too."

"Wonder why?" Narcissa commented. Madam Longbottom hastily coughed into her hand.

Sirius glared at the smirking woman. "Anyway..." he said, "what's happening about the empty seats?"

"Well...nothing," Cuthbert looked at him oddly, "the direct family lines have died out. I suppose eventually in the natural course of things they may well be auctioned off or given as rewards to particularly notable up-and-coming families," he sniffed disdainfully, making his opinion of that option particularly clear.

"Wow, my godson would absolutely love that wouldn't he?" Sirius settled back in his chair. "Hmm...generally, the seat has to go to a direct descendent via the male line...maybe...what if...cousins could inherit or...it could descend through the female line as well...the seats would stay in their families, but also it would minimise the potential for my darling little godson to be able to dictate things...make demands..." He looked round the table at the blank stares he was receiving from the others. "What? Was it something I said?"

Dumbledore blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face. "What a marvellous idea, Sirius, yes, that certainly has possibilities..."

OOOOOO

Putting the final finishing touches to his latest attempt at manipulating gravity had taken the better part of a month, checking and double checking that it wasn't in fact going to blow up in his flat like the last one. It had been rather awkward explaining the broken windows, definitely something he wanted to avoid in future, and frankly he didn't think Widow Weber would limit herself to banging on the ceiling if it happened again.

He twisted the device again where it sat on the coffee table. It looked remarkably like a Chinese puzzle-ball, but the fret-work was, he had to admit, eye-smarting...yes, that should do it. He'd succeeded in levitating objects, even used it as a propulsion system. He grinned at the thought of his hover board; he'd actually succeeded in doing a triple loop-the-loop the other day, absolutely brilliant...but this...if this went well, he would have his very own little packet of zero-gravity that he could manipulate and experiment with. The possible industrial applications alone would probably keep him occupied for the next couple of decades...

Pulling his pencil-wand from behind his ear, the God-Emperor of Mankind gave the device a couple of precise jabs, runes flaring into life, blue bale-fyre dancing and shimmering.

A distinct hum rose in the air as the device came to life, its nested spheres spinning with increasing rapidity, a blue haze beginning to coalesce around its frantically vibrating form.

The God-Emperor eyed it warily. Well, it was certainly looking very _busy,_ but as for the effects...he leant towards the bowl of ping-pong balls he'd put aside for this exact purpose...only for his legs to drift out from under him, as he nudged into the coffee-table, which slowly drifted away in the opposite direction, bumping into the sofa before slowly ricocheting off the ceiling. He gaped as the floor drifted away, a spiralling trail of ping-pong balls following him upwards.

Wow...he'd done it... succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. With a grin, he gently pushed away from the ceiling towards the coffee table, the ping-pong balls bouncing off him as he went past...except he missed and, losing momentum, came to a halt roughly in the middle of the room.

"Oh, blast it!" he exclaimed in frustration as he slowly twirled in place, the floor gently rotating above him, the coffee-table drifting idly by, listing drunkenly, the anti-gravity device still firmly planted on its top, whirring more frantically than ever. He watched in concern; was it heating up? He tried to reach for it...

...from below came a surprised shriek, followed by a great deal of swearing, the flat on the left, childish screams of alarm followed by a delighted whoop and giggling...oh no...the pocket of zero-gravity was increasing...he frantically tried to move towards the device, swimming in place and getting absolutely nowhere...though he probably did manage to look absolutely ridiculous.

The whirring of the spheres increased, their runic inscriptions an illegible blur. The God-Emperor increased his frantic attempts to reach his creation before it affected the entire building, produced an even stranger effect...or simply blew up. If he could just turn it off... the childish whoops and giggles had been joined by frightened adult shouting...he tried to push off a passing chair sending it spinning towards the wall and himself slowly in towards the coffee-table. The device made a clicking noise, the spinning spheres coming to a sudden and catastrophic halt, cracks appearing across their surface, the glow of the runes slowly dying...

Oh no...the God-Emperor flailed, trying to get himself into a more upright position, but no joy; the floor rapidly came towards him, making its hard and unyielding presence felt, any unsecured objects raining down around him with a thunderous crash, muffled shrieks and shouts coming through the walls...and then silence. Wincing, he warily opened an eye, only to be struck square on the forehead by the last air-borne ping-pong ball.

Groaning, he untangled himself and pulled himself upright, looking round at the destruction of his living room, the only unscathed item his floating coaster still with a mug of coffee on it...this was going to take _hours_ to fix.

Muffled crying drifted through the walls, as hammering and angry shouting from below told him exactly what the lovely Widow Weber thought of his latest experiment. He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was going to have to go round to the neighbours too...how was he going to explain this?


	4. Chapter 4

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Chapter 4

He'd managed to fix the contents of all but two of the flats his little zero-gravity experiment had affected; well, everything except the most complex of the electronic equipment. Unfortunately, that was currently beyond his "magical" skills. He was still certain there was a perfectly rational explanation for it. He had decided to save the lovely Widow Weber's residence for last, so now he was creeping through the dark and silent living room of the family who lived to his right.

He winced guiltily at the mess; broken pieces of furniture carefully stacked in a corner, other items obviously salvaged against the far wall, a broom forlornly propped up against a gate-leaf table that exhibited a nasty and very fresh looking gash across its top. The God-Emperor winced; a flick of his pencil-wand, and the top was as good as new. One down, many, many to go...

Sitting cross legged on the carpet, he pulled a box towards him, neatly repaired kitchen chairs stacked behind him, next to a display cabinet that had regained its glazing. He looked in. Ah, ornaments, his favourite...not.

Six droopy shepherdesses later, he came across a carriage clock, an obvious family heirloom. His heart twinged with guilt; he really needed a proper place, a _safe_ place for his experiments. Holes in ceilings were annoying but reparable, but this was...this was peoples' family history and he'd broken it. The distress he must have caused...well, he was just going to make sure he did a good job of mending it...

The last cog slipped neatly into place, its fixture tightening. He eyed his handiwork critically; no sign of wear on the cogs, the spring unbroken, yes, that should do it. Carefully, he wound it up, and it sprung to life, the regulator rocking back and forth, the cogs ticking smoothly past one another...perfect. He set the time...hmm, quarter past three in the morning, this had taken him longer than he'd thought. Now, should he set it to chime or not?

"It's never worked before," an awestruck voice said by his elbow. The God-Emperor startled, nearly dropping the newly mended clock. There, sitting next to him, was a little boy in stripy pyjamas, gazing up at him in fascination. "Hullo," he said grinning, and displaying his missing upper incisors.

"Hello," the God-Emperor said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Are you Santa?" the little boy asked.

"Erm...no," he replied, "I err...I'm a physicist and I was doing this experiment with zero-gravity and it went wrong." He watched the small boy desperately. Was he doing this right? He didn't have much contact with small children. "Well, it went alright...but it was more effective than I thought, and instead of getting a small pocket of null-gravity it, erm...grew and grew..."

The little boy nodded solemnly. "It was fun. I was being an astronaut with my space rocket," he held up the toy which looked to be in some distress, "but then I fell on the sofa, but my rocket fell on the floor...and then the end fell off." He looked up at the God-Emperor sadly.

"Well, I'm sure I can do something about that," the God-Emperor said with a smile, giving the toy a smart rap with his pencil-wand. The loose parts welded themselves back into place seamlessly before the awed owner's eyes. "Like magic," he breathed, "are you sure you're not Santa?"

"I'm just a physicist," the God-Emperor said, as he mended yet another droopy shepherdess.

"What about one of Santa's elves?" the little boy asked.

"Not even that..."

The God-Emperor steeled himself. How did Widow Weber's door manage to look more menacing than all the others? Well, he had a job to do. A click and the door opened on to the dark flat beyond. Oh thank goodness, Widow Weber was asleep, he'd be able to do this and get back out with her being none the wiser. Carefully, he crept in to assess the damage...hmm, more broken chairs...a three legged table...a badly dented table-la...

The lights snapped on, and something hard made sudden contact with his left shin. Yelping in surprise, he whirled to find a furious Widow Weber standing there wielding her broom as if it were a halberd. "You thoughtless lout!" she shrieked.

OOOOOO

His formal office at the Lodge was rather nice, a blend of the old and the new that had set the man from English Heritage tutting and frowning (though that could have been the obviously used ashtray on his desk), set in the Tudor part of the building, its large leaded window looking out over the formal walled garden; if he leaned back in his chair, he could see the Orangery.

Pale lime-washed wooden panelling and a beautifully painted sky ceiling kept the room feeling light and airy, even if the putti who flew across the ceiling trailing ribbons had a tendency to rest on the edges and peer down at him curiously while he worked.

The family portraits that hung around the room weren't quite so appreciative of the modern and very _muggle_ technology he was using. They also didn't like the battle-scene that Carrow had gifted him either. Timothy had to admit he had his reservations too; it was extraordinarily noisy, and spent most of its time under a silencing charm, but that didn't detract from the terrifying vision of a colossus of a war-machine Carrow called a Titan marching ponderously across a distant horizon crushing all before it, its vast weapons firing with dazzling flashes of light.

It all contrasted sharply with the very expensive and very modern office furniture, all steel and glass. On the other side of the marble fireplace was a second desk, a recent addition, behind which sat a stressed looking Percy Weasley. Timothy eyed the younger man a moment; his typing had radically improved, but he had a feeling that Percy was never going to quite overcome his losing battle with the photocopier...or his terror of anything that contained a microprocessor.

He turned back to his own mountain of paperwork with a heavy sigh, turning to the lengthy report from Carrow's contact (more like spy) within the Muggle Liaison Department. The ill-will that was being stored up there was utterly breath-taking, and all because of the arrogance and incompetence of a few individuals. Even the contact wasn't happy about the situation, and he was a pure-blood. Should he bring this to Carrow's attention? Well, yes probably, the department would suddenly become highly effective virtually overnight, but then Carrow would have his hooks buried even more deeply into the Ministry.

Oh, what the hell.

He dumped the folder on the pile for Carrow's attention. Next one...hmm...bill to change inheritance rights of Wizengamot seats...he frowned. What was this about? He flicked through it carefully...this was the work of Dumbledore and his group...a proposal to increase the possible candidates who could inherit Wizengamot seats. He rubbed a hand down his face. This could be advantageous to Carrow's cause, bring more seats into play, increase his unspoken majority; but of course it worked both ways. He added a note for Carrow's immediate attention to the front...

"I cannot find Artemis," the familiar growl sounded just feet away. Timothy suppressed the urge to flinch, and turned in his seat to be confronted with a sea of braid, the Purgatus of St Seraphim slithering its way across the broad chest...he looked up at Carrow...who was scowling down at him, with almost...was that concern? Beyond him, Percy watched with wide eyes.

"What about..." Timothy began.

"I've even asked the archaeologists," Carrow continued, "she hasn't been near their trenches either, even the one around the back of the kitchen gardens."

Timothy closed his mouth with a clack. "The attics?" he suggested.

Carrow shook his head. "I checked; the tiger-proof wards are still intact."

Well, that was concerning; where had the giant fur-ball managed to get in now, maybe a...

The phone rang, stridently trilling in the silent space. The portraits glared and grumbled. "How terribly anti-social," a particularly formidable witch complained, "all this new fangled nonsense, we didn't need it in _our_ day!" Her fellow portraits nodded and muttered in agreement.

Timothy shook his head, ignoring the grumbling Potter ancestors. "The Lodge. Can I help you?" he announced into the handset.

"Mr Carrow?" a frazzled male voice asked on the other end of the line.

Timothy blinked; it wasn't every day he was mistaken for his employer. "Erm, no, I'm Timothy Faulks, Mr Carrow's secretary."

"Oh...Mr Faulks," the voice wavered, "this is Geoffrey Sutton Junior School...erm, your ward, Felix Trebor, has brought a _tiger_ into the school and..."

But Timothy wasn't really listening. Oh grief, Felix was such a handful. He'd already got into several fist fights with other students, mainly over attempts to bully him over his appearance, and then of course there was that time some bright spark had dared him to climb up the curtains in the assembly hall only for him to be caught half way up, and he'd only been there a couple of months.

"Felix took Artemis with him to school," he whispered to Carrow, a hand over the mouth piece.

Carrow stared back at him, expression unreadable. "I will go and retrieve her at once," he growled, turning on his heel, the hem of his leather great coat snapping around his heels.

"Wait," Timothy shouted desperately after him. "Oh...crap," he muttered to himself; how further traumatised could a bunch of school-children get? After all, they had just met a tiger; a close encounter with a leather clad over-enthusiastic sociopath should be nothing. "Mr Carrow is coming to pick Artemis up now," he told the panicking man.

"Artemis?" came the stressed reply.

"Yes," Timothy said, "the tiger...her name is Artemis."

oOo

Felix was the first thing he noticed as he shouldered his way through the annoyingly tiny door. The lad was slumped on a plastic chair and blatantly sulking, arms folded over his chest, ears back and bottom lip protruding, his tail twitching irritably. It was quite endearing.

Carrow hid his amusement as he looked round the classroom, ignoring the irritating gabbling of the man who'd introduced himself as the school secretary. He blinked in surprise; what were all those children...and their teacher, doing huddled up against the far wall like that; weren't they supposed to be having a class? What sort of school _had_ he sent his ward to?

"I thought a lesson was supposed to be in progress," he frowned down disapprovingly at the nervous wreck of a secretary.

The shaken man made an inarticulate sound, pulling on his tie. "...the tiger," he squeaked, "there's a _tiger_ in the classroom..."

"She's quite domesticated, I assure you," Carrow told him, "very sweet natured, and good with children."

The school secretary went a peculiar custard colour, and stared at him as if he were quite mad. What a strange little man.

He strode past him to where Artemis sat peering back at him over her shoulder. She had propped her front paws on the window sill, and was happily watching a class outside who appeared to be doing calisthenics of some description, though a few of the children seemed rather distracted by the sight of Artemis peering through the window at them. She seemed quite content, so he left her for the moment.

And now for the little trouble-maker, he thought fondly. He crouched down in front of the lad, who seemed to droop down even further, peering up at him nervously. It was on some level, he felt, a moment as important as any battle he'd ever fought.

"Felix," he said as gently as he could, "I would like to know why you brought Artemis to school with you, please."

Felix was staring up at him now, green eyes wide, looking on the verge of tears. "They wouldn't believe me," his voice hitched, "they didn't believe I lived with a tiger and a monster-slaying giant in a castle with a moat. They kept on calling me a _liar_," he was crying in earnest now, "even Miss Therwick wouldn't believe me, so I had to...to show them somehow." He hiccupped and sniffled, rubbing at his eyes.

Carrow gazed down happily at his charge. "Ah, the revealing of uncomfortable truths; 'tis righteous work, young man, and worthy indeed. I approve whole-heartedly of your motives; you just need to work a little at perfecting your execution..."

Felix nodded tearfully.

"I was very concerned," Carrow continued, "when I could not find Artemis in her usual favourite haunts; it was only by good fortune that I happened to be in the office when the school rang." He looked severely at the sobbing child, and then sighed. "In future, ask me, and I'm sure suitable arrangements can be made...even for the monster slaying; though I must say the Lodge is more of a manor house these days rather than a castle...but it does indeed have a moat, which I would really like to re-flood and populate...maybe with sharks." He gave Felix a smile.

To his utter surprise, the boy launched himself forward flinging his arms around his neck, sobbing apologies into his high collar. Carrow wasn't entirely sure what to do in these situations, Timothy normally handled such things, but trusting to luck and the grace of the God-Emperor, he wrapped his arms gently around his charge and stood up, holding him carefully against his braid encrusted chest. The sobbing slowly began to reduce.

A clattering sound announced Artemis's clambering on top of the teacher's desk, the calisthenics class having departed inside. He turned to this Miss...Therwick with his most severe scowl, the one he usually reserved for the most corrupt and spineless of Planetary Governors. "Now, I do believe you have a class to teach, do you not," he growled menacingly, "and I expect you to _excel_ at it; only the best for my little boy, after all..."

oOo

The waiting room of the Veterinary Surgery was small, to him at least, filled with the scents of nervous animals intermingled with odours he normally associated with an Apothecarium; it was a strange and unique contrast.

Carrow blinked in surprise as he looked round at the few people waiting their creatures; hopefully, this...establishment would be able to provide Artemis with the medical check-up and inoculations that Miss Phillips-Worthington had been very insistent that she needed.

"I am here for an appointment for my cat," he announced to the wild-eyed receptionist, ducking down slightly so he could see through her hatch into her little cubby-hole office better. Despite being rather poky and crammed, it looked rather homely with a spider-plant sitting on top of a filing cabinet and a calendar on the wall featuring an improbably fluffy grey kitten sporting a blue bow. The poor creature looked rather cross about it too.

He quirked an eyebrow at the gaping receptionist.

"Erm...erm..." the young lady finally found her voice, "what...what...err name was it, sir?" she quavered.

"Mr Carrow, and my cat's name is Artemis." Carrow hid his sigh of annoyance. Meat bags...the tendency for their brains to cease all higher functions in his presence had become old very quickly. Timothy was such a refreshing change, particularly when he lost his temper.

The young lady picked nervously away at her cogitator for a moment. "Ah, yes," she giggled nervously, "erm...10.45am...Artemis Carrow...if you'd like to take a seat, sir."

Carrow eyed the provided seating with distaste. Feeling very put-upon, he sat on one of the incredibly uncomfortable and annoyingly flimsy chairs with an annoyed sigh.

The other inhabitants of the Waiting Room jerked in surprise, clutching their various pets. Artemis sidled behind his legs, peering round his knees shyly at these strangers. The strangers stared back, wide-eyed and terrified. Carrow scowled. It was as if they'd never seen a feline before.

A stupid but friendly looking dog padded across, tail wagging tentatively to say hello to Artemis. He watched carefully as the two animals sniffed delicately at one another, ignoring the ridiculous gibbering of the dog's owner. If there was any boisterous nonsense he would soon put an end to it.

Was that another dog? The thing perched on the elderly gentleman's lap was small and hairy, watching him intently with beady black eyes. And he wasn't even sure what was in that plastic carry-case, it had been squeaking incessantly when he'd arrived. Oh, and a small stripy feline, the fur on its back standing upright in a ridge. He sighed heavily; how long was he going to have to wait?

A door to the side of the reception opened, and a short stout woman in a white tunic and grey trousers stepped through, took one look at Artemis and blanched. "Erm...Artemis Carrow," she stuttered.

Ah, finally. Carrow bounced to his feet, the annoying meat-sacks flinching back in their chairs. Ignoring them, he strode through to the Veterinary Surgery Proper, ushering Artemis in before him.

A tall and gawky man with thinning blonde hair turned from washing his hands, freezing as Carrow scooped the rather bewildered Artemis up and placed her on the examination table. "I have been informed that my cat needs a medical examination...and possibly inoculations." He stared at the man expectantly.

The vet looked frozen in place, staring at Artemis, who, now she had settled down, was delicately washing a paw, and then at him. What had got into people today? Why were they being so...so ridiculous?

"She's a tiger," the vet finally found his voice, "I only treat _domestic_ animals, cats, dogs, rabbits, guinea-pigs, hamsters, gerbils...the odd chinchilla...you know..._pets_."

Carrow scowled. "Of course Artemis is a domestic animal, she lives in my house, and she is a feline, a _cat_. Therefore, she is obviously a domestic cat and falls under your perview."

Artemis pawed at his sleeve, begging for attention, gazing up at him adoringly with her big blue eyes. As he ruffled the fur behind her ears, his rage at the vet dissipated to merely annoyed; she was such a wonderfully soothing animal, an excellent and loyal companion.

"Look," the vet scrunched his face up in exasperation, "she's not a domestic cat. I'll prove it to you," he said, when Carrow began to scowl. He disappeared into the back room, reappearing seconds later with an armful of grey fur, which looked round with bleary yellow eyes, one fore-leg bound in a sausage of white bandage. "This is Blossom, she is a fully grown domestic cat, specifically a Persian," he juggled her gently into a slightly more comfortable position, carefully nursing the injured leg, "she's a bit groggy at the moment, recovering from the anaesthetic. But you can see there's something of a difference in size and appearance. So, Artemis may be...domesticated, but she's a _tiger,_ and that means she needs to see a big-cat specialist."

Carrow considered the matter for a moment, looking between the two radically different felines, who were becoming increasingly interested in one another. The vet hurriedly took Blossom away to continue her recuperation in peace.

"But they must have the same physiology, just scaled up," Carrow pointed out, "surely it would not be beyond..."

"Absolutely _not_," the vet snapped, as he emerged from the back room looking rather pale, "that would be like a paediatrician giving you an examination. They might be able to make generalisations but they wouldn't be able to go into specifics. No, Artemis needs to see a specialist..." He frantically grabbed the phone, flipping through the address book next to it. "The local zoo has some big cats...and a vet who deals with them...I'll see if I can get you an appointment with her..."

"Or I could save you the trouble, and just go to this...zoo today," Carrow suggested.

"_What_, just walk through the front gates, with Artemis in tow?!" The vet looked appalled. "What a _stupid_ idea, do you want to get her sh...oh good morning, it's George Sparrow from Bloomfield Vetinary Practice. I was wondering whether you could help me, I've had a patient today who needs to see a specialist...yes...no...a tiger...seriously...no, no he's quite whole...probably not all there, no..."

Carrow sighed heavily, gently massaging Artemis's neck; this vet's business was turning out to be considerably more complicated than he thought.

OOOOOO

Rita Skeeter shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously, checking her shoulder bag and her camera. Had she remembered everything? Had she got spare quills? More film for the camera? Suzie Boo? She swallowed nervously; this was a big tip one of her contacts in the DMLE had passed on to her. Only minutes ago a poor owl had practically ricocheted off her kitchen table, and given its message's nature it was almost certain that Carrow or at least his team would be involved. This was it, a golden opportunity to emulate those muggle journalists, going into dangerous places, getting into the thick of the action and reporting it back, so the public can know what actually happened, get a real understanding, a feel for what it was like to be there. She'd been so impressed reading all those muggle papers Faulks had shown her, all those people risking their lives for their stories. It really threw the Daily Prophet into the shade, made her aware of what a small pond she really swam in. Why write articles about the Malfoy Summer Solstice ball when she could be like...like...Kate Adie...yes...

...and so here she stood, near the DMLE's departmental apparition point, hoping- _praying_ that her tip was as hot as it claimed, trying not to attract the attention of the Aurors as they came and went on assignment.

If only she could hide as a beetle- but she highly doubted she'd be able to explain away her sudden appearance, and there was no way she was going to lose the advantage her animagus form gave her, not a chance...

At the sound of familiar footsteps, she peered out of her hiding place in the shadows. Ah, finally...Faulks was striding along with a group of his entourage. She recognised the familiar sandy hair of Wulfric, the two women...what were their names...Juno and Athena, and that short and scrawny, wiry man, she wasn't sure of his name, carrying a...actually she wasn't sure what it was...a funny back pack with tubes and things, all terribly muggle, as were the ladies' weapons, and they were openly carrying them in the Ministry of Magic. The small team of Aurors with them were eyeing the unfamiliar paraphernalia dubiously; well, that wouldn't last long. And wasn't that the Weasley boy, Percival, something like that, talking to Faulks? She frowned, adjusting her glasses; he looked so nervous, and she had to admit, rather panicky. "Nothing to worry about, I'm sure you'll pick it up with a little practise. Seriously, the photocopier _is_ quite harmless, just a little fiddly to operate...sometimes." He gave Percival a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Weasley nodded shakily and retreated.

Faulks spotted her, his face going scarily blank, eyes like chips of ice. "Excuse me a moment," she heard him tell the lead Auror. She steeled herself as he strode over, trying to look as calm and professional as possible.

"Ms Skeeter," he greeted her, "what can I assist you with today?"

Rita shook his hand as firmly as she could manage. "I want to come with you...on your assignment, so I can write a first-hand account for the Prophet...put the work of the DMLE in a positive light, give the public a better understanding of their work..." she smiled tightly, "I understand it's something muggle journalists regularly do..." She trailed off, willing him to understand just how important this was to her.

Faulk's expression barely changed as he considered her request, his gaze taking in her equipment and her attire. She'd gone to some pains to make sure she would be ready for anything, even going so far as buying waterproof travelling robes and boots that weren't enchanted, in a drab grey. Apparently some magical creatures were sensitive to such things, and would hunt and attack the wearer of overly magical garments, making their capture or just observation rather interesting; she had a suspicion that Dark Wizards might have similar skills; better safe than sorry.

"It will be dangerous and unpredictable," he said after a moment, ignoring the impatient Auror stood behind him, "I can't guarantee that I can keep you safe. You'll have to be prepared to defend yourself at a moment's notice."

Rita nodded grimly.

"Can we go now?" the lead Auror asked sarcastically.

"In your own time, Auror Hewitt," Faulks replied coldly.

Auror Hewitt glared.

oOo

Carrow shifted uncomfortably on the small plastic chair scowling down at the exam paper. When he'd gleefully decided to stamp all over the Mechanicum's monopoly on technology, and, he was increasingly coming to realise, the underlying science, he didn't realise it was going to result in something like this, being forced to sit still on a tiny flimsy chair, at a tiny flimsy desk, in a room with lots of anxious little meat-bags for _three...whole...hours_.

He fiddled with his pen and the holder he'd made from split bamboo and elastic bands. It worked surprisingly well, and had certainly reduced the frustration of fiddly too-short writing implements. An invigilator frowned at him as he twanged a band; he hunched down under the glare, grumbling to himself. He turned his attention back to the exam paper... the differences between igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary rocks_..._three different points for each type...hmmm...

The Mechanicum; they had turned the tools that built a civilization into a religion, a cult...and then it had fossilised, atrophied into this wizened thing viciously guarded by those stupid, blind..._cultists_, hoarding all that knowledge and artefacts to themselves, even though they didn't really understand them. Too jealous to let anyone else have a go; he growled softly to himself.

The invigilator cleared her throat meaningfully.

oOo

The port-key deposited them a mile from their target near a copse of trees, their target, a dilapidated stable building, clearly visible in the distance; a quick briefing, and the team had apparated into position, leaving _her _behind. The lead Auror had been particularly patronising about it, leaving Rita grinding her teeth in fury; if defenceless muggles could go into dangerous situations, then so could she...and Faulks had just watched with that cold mask of his, and then winked just as he apparated away.

Well, stuff staying here...her view of the world shrank and fragmented, grass stalks and dandelions looming large around her in all their faceted glory. Scrambling up a stem of grass, she shook her wings out, taking flight, whirring in and out of the grass and scrubby bits of hedge and landing neatly on the rough wall of the stable building, just above Faulks.

They were crouched silently on either side of a rotten looking door, sun bleached and peeling paint, wands and weapons held ready. What were they waiting for? She circled on the wall impatiently...the door burst in and they scrambled through in an organised stampede fanning out into the gloomy space beyond. Rita followed them inside, via the underside of the top of the door frame. There was a strange quality to the musty chilliness that the building breathed out that couldn't entirely be explained away by its derelict state. Into a cacophony of noise and movement which left her disoriented, she flittered up towards the rafters as quickly as she could, trying to find somewhere safe to observe the heaving fight underneath.

Crawling across a dusty rafter, she could finally discern some pattern to the mess beneath. Faulks locked in a close and desperate struggle with a muscular man with tattoos up his arms, Auror Hewitt duelling two at a time, Wulfric punching someone full on in the face, a freckle-faced youth lying too still on the ground, a nasty gash to his temple, the sound of a rifle-butt connecting hard with someone's skull as Chuddy worked his way through the desperate throng, the crack of a pistol, a female bellow and the sound of flesh hitting flesh hard as Juno flattened a wannabe thug's nose. Beyond the seething madness, stood a pinch faced young man watching calculatingly. Beside him...she shifted to get a better view...a ritual circle of some kind, the runes incomprehensible to her, she'd never got on with them at Hogwarts, and at its centre a young woman terrified and naked as the day she was born, and beyond, cowering, forgotten in a corner two more girls who'd pulled some rotten sacking over themselves to hide their embarrassment, watching with wild eyes full of animal terror. The smell of blood, and sweat and desperation permeated the small space, overlaid with the metallic tingle of spent magic, and something darker; if she had been human at that moment she would have sneezed.

There was a shadow of movement in her periphery vision, masses of long legs and multiple eyes, her instincts hurriedly flinging her into space, beating her wings frantically as she tried to get as far away from the threat as she could. A spider; oh, how she hated the hideous things, and that one had nearly got her too! She shuddered in disgust. It wasn't something the literature really mentioned, the dangers of predators mistaking you for a tasty snack. At least her fear and loathing of spiders was a socially acceptable phobia. What if she was stuck turning into a...an aphid, the thought of having to try and explain an overwhelming fear of ladybird larva was just...awkward...

A wave of magical pressure zipped past her, tossing her around in its wake, quickly followed by another that she barely managed to scramble out of the way of. She desperately needed somewhere safe to settle; instinct drove her on, and she dived towards the nearest shadowy nook she could find. Her refuge moved under her as it dodged and rolled like a ship in a heavy sea. She crept deeper into her new sanctuary, hair brushing against her carapace...a textured leather collar and black worsted wool...oh...oh, Merlin...she was clinging to Faulk's collar. A familiar voice, felt more than heard, distorted by closeness, swore expressively as the lurching became worse. Rita clung as best she could; oh dear, _how_ was she going to explain this? She'd wanted to get close to the action, but this was bordering on the ridiculous. She fluttered nervously, as Faulks lurched under her and engaged the next opponent, a man who swore and threatened and shrieked as much as he fought, desperately trying to keep Faulks's visibly superior skills at bay, dodging and twisting until, with an over powered bludgeoning curse, he blasted a large hole in the side of the stable building. Ducking and turning, he tried to position himself closer to escape, but Faulks was close after him, wary to his game. Desperately throwing himself to one side, the scrawny man kept on going, shrinking and twisting until...Rita clicked her mandibles in surprise...an animagus, a _fox _animagus. The rusty coloured creature dived for the rough new opening, easily leaping over the pile of rubble, disappearing into the yard in a rush, his thick bottle-brush of a tail trailing after him.

Faulks snarled with rage. "Wulfric," he bellowed.

"I'm on it," the werewolf shouted back, as he leapt through the ragged hole out into the yard beyond in hot pursuit. Faulks turned looking for the next combatant, but the fight was all but over, groaning soon-to-be-prisoners lying on the floor, suffering a variety of spell damage, some unconscious, someone shouting into the ringing silence as he struggled against a couple of the Aurors who were wrestling him to the ground and into cuffs.

She felt Faulks tense beneath her. "Stop! Don't _move_," he snarled at Auror Hewitt.

The man froze in the act of reaching out to the young woman sitting in the middle of the ritual circle. "but..." he tried protesting.

"Silence," Faulks snapped, "nobody move."

The Aurors stared in suspicion, though Rita noticed that Faulks's people didn't look the least surprised. How often did they do things like this? The thick oppressive silence closed over them all like a blanket.

One of the girls stifled a sob, as she shifted slightly under her makeshift covering.

An Auror twitched nervously at some unseen movement.

The little wiry man with the strange backpack thing shifted slightly, his boot scuffing softly on the floor.

Faulks ignored it all, turning slowly on the spot, eyes closed, hand on his pistol. What was he searching for? Rita watched in nervous puzzlement as the stable turned by. Was there something they were all missing? And then he moved, drawing the pistol so rapidly, that if she could have blinked she would have missed it, and pointed it at...the shivering young woman still sitting in the middle of the ritual circle, a clicking sound echoing around the enclosed space.

"What are you doing?" Auror Hewitt exclaimed. "She needs _help!_"

"Saving all our lives," Faulks growled, "there's something in here with us."

Auror Hewitt sputtered indignantly. "_What? _Bloody ridiculous!" he glared at Faulks before turning to the girl. "What's your name, miss?"

The girl wrapped her arms tighter around her legs, shivering, her eyes darting around, rather like a trapped animal Rita thought suspiciously, possibly too like...

"V...V...Vicky...my name is Vicky," she stuttered frantically looking between the Auror and Faulks, "wha...what's going on?" she asked desperately.

"I'm not entirely sure," Auror Hewitt said with a frown, "anyway," he gave her a smile, "take my hand and we'll have you out of here in a jiffy," he reached towards her with a kind smile. Rita watched with dread as the girl reached towards him...there was just something _off_ about her smile...her eyes...she fluttered in agitation against Faulks's collar...don't do it, don't touch her, she tried to scream but the clicks of her mandibles were barely audible...

...a staccato of bangs...one...two...small plumes of blood flowered on the girl's chest...she turned, her eyes glowing inhumanly yellow, her mouth opening far too wide in a jagged toothed smile, a mass of twisted horns erupting from her head...Auror Hewitt recoiled in terror as her body cracked and twisted, skin rippling and distorting in unnatural ways, an outraged hissing shriek...another staccato of bangs...one eye disappearing in a spray of gore...a chunk torn from the remains of her..._its_ neck as it tried to swarm towards the source of its agony on too many legs only to be brought up short by the ritual circle which still held firm despite everything...one final shot straight between the eyes...the back of its head disappearing in a spray of pulp and blood...with a last furious hiss it slumped to the floor, the life fading from its remaining eye, thick black blood pooling around its twisted form.

"Chuddy, if you would," Faulks said his voice hard and cold in the ringing silence.

The smaller man eagerly charged forward, quickly readying his curious weapon. Rita eyed it dubiously, it was obviously muggle but it wasn't a gun, so what did it do? It reeked of chemicals and the flame at the nozzle of the gun thing was not reassuring. Chuddy pulled the trigger, swathing the twisted corpse with a wash of flames with a satisfied smirk. The hideous thing burnt with a smell of rubber and manure, hissing and popping as it did so.

"You _idiot_," Faulks snarled at the prone Auror.

"Wha...what the_ hell_ was that?" Auror Hewitt screeched from his sprawl on the floor, "what's going on?" He pointed a finger at the burning twisted thing, "how the _hell_ do I explain _that_?!"

Rita felt Faulks tense and sigh, obviously furious and exasperated. "That, Auror Hewitt, was a minor example of the sort of...beings Mr Carrow has been trained to hunt down and destroy. How you decide to write this incident up in your report...well, that is entirely up to you..."

Rita stared at the horrible burning thing, a cold feeling crawling in her guts; that was a _minor_ example of what the Monster was really designed to predate

oOo

Carrow curled his lip in disgust; he'd seen this diagram, a right-angle triangle, each side extended into a square, inscribed on an altar dedicated to the Ominissiah once. He hadn't understood its significance at the time, but now, he could quite cheerfully snap their spindly little necks and pull their mechadendrites out by the roots. Pythagoras's theorem, venerated as a mystical symbol...he highly doubted the cog-boys had actually understood its significance either. He sighed heavily, finished his answer and turned to the next question...ooh, quadratic equations, his _favourite..._

oOo

Rita shifted slightly to the left, trying to get a better view of the hole in the side of the stable building and the rubble that was strewn across the yard. She was quite new to this photography thing; sometimes her shots were quite good, but other times...hmm, maybe from the side, but then she'd have to compensate for the relatively bright sky...huh...if she ducked down a bit...yes, that should do it.

The sounds of voices and approaching footsteps increased and Rita looked up in curiosity. The Aurors must be ready to start removing the prisoners into custody then. She'd left them several minutes ago, wasn't entirely sure how long the entire incident had taken, but hopefully they'd assume she'd walked over from the port-key point. She positioned herself near the entrance, maybe some shots of the prisoners being led away, she doubted she'd be let inside now to get one of the ritual circle with its twisted charred corpse; she'd just have to take what she could get.

The actually conscious prisoners were carefully led out in twos; most were resigned to their fate, but of course, there's always one noisy one. Rita sighed as the thuggish man with the tattoos started swearing and struggling as he spotted her; oh well. She took a picture while the Aurors restrained him with more conjured ropes and carefully placed stinging hexes, until he looked like nothing more than a giant grub with a human head.

"What's _she _doing here?" Auror Hewitt snarled as the shouting man was apparated away to the DMLE and a nice quiet holding-cell. Faulks looked over Auror Hewitt's shoulder giving her a faint trace of a smile and to Rita's disbelief a wink. Did he know where she'd been? Oh, how embarrassing.

"I walked here," Rita said flatly to the Auror, doing her best to keep her expression blank.

"Scuse us," a voice came from behind them, and the two men shifted, letting an Auror by levitating one of the unconscious thugs, a man who's personality Rita was sure was much improved by his current condition.

"Walked," Auror Hewitt snapped, "you can't possibly have walked all that way in twenty minutes. It's nearly a mile!" He snorted in disbelief.

Faulks rolled his eyes, as the two living female victims were gently led out, now wrapped in hastily conjured robes. "Don't be ridiculous, Hewitt, any healthy adult can walk a mile in fifteen minutes."

Rita shook her head with a sigh; unbelievable, people who apparated everywhere. It's a wonder he'd managed to pass the new fitness tests. Raising her camera, she sighted on the two girls...maybe this one would do...

oOo

Shifting uncomfortably on the flimsy little chair, Carrow checked through his paper, trying to ignore its groans of protest. Had he managed to answer everything...nothing missed? He wondered how his apprentice was doing. Though Timothy was very able, it was still early days in his training and he didn't quite yet have the instincts that would keep him alive as a fully fledged Inquisitor. There was nothing Carrow could do about it though, so he would have to trust in the God-Emperor and Timothy's common sense...

"Time everyone. If you could finish your writing and put down your pens please," the Invigilator announced. There was a flurry of rustling as the papers were collected and people stretched in their chairs and shook out aching hands, relieved that finally it was all over...until next year.

"Your first year?" the Invigilator asked as she collected his paper.

"Indeed," Carrow murmured with a small smile.

"Well, good luck and see you next year," she smiled cheerfully, moving off down the row of desks.

OOOOOO

The Senior Hit-Wizard from the ICW scratched the back of his head, brow furrowed as he checked through the file dealing with the latest (that they knew of) disaster caused by that English monster Carrow, and this time he was having to interview Muggle military, the poor sods having become entangled in the giant lunatic's latest rampage. Having to deal with traumatised non-magicals was not his idea of fun...

"Sir," his adjunct asked, "isn't Mr Carrow's secretary called Faulks, you know, the skinny crazy guy with the weird taste in clothes."

The Senior Hit-Wizard looked over his adjunct's shoulder, _Corporal Matthew Faulks..._oh dear...

The young man who entered the interrogation suite did bare a passing resemblance to Carrow's secretary of questionable sanity though he was more stockily built, slightly shorter, obviously trim in his smartly tailored uniform, hiding his discomfort behind a mask of strict professionalism. As they went through the formal introductions the Senior Hit-Wizard's foreboding was further reinforced. The Corporal was wary of them, distrustful even, though he hid it well, but at no point did he express surprise at who or what they were. He had to know. "I take it you are familiar with the Magical World, then?" he asked.

Corporal Faulks stared at him a moment, "to an extent...my younger brother is a wizard."

The adjunct, not always blessed with tact, blurted out, "And you're not jealous?"

Corporal Faulks gave him a funny look. "Well, no. We all have our talents after all. I've always been rather better than him at team sports...and frankly magic seems to have made my brother's life more complicated than anything...and not necessarily in a good way."

The adjunct seemed disbelieving at the muggle's response, utterly oblivious to the Senior Hit-Wizard's glare, who gritted his teeth in frustration; given the circumstances they needed to tread carefully. "If we can get on with the interview please," he snapped at his underling. Pulling out a wad of photographs from the folder, he quickly leafed through them, selecting a particularly good close-up of the Monster's secretary in all his scarred, gore-splattered, leather clad glory, plonking it down in front of the Corporal. "Do you recognise this man?" he asked, tapping the picture with a finger.

Corporal Faulks stared at the image intently. "That's my little brother," he finally said, his voice tinged with sadness.

The adjunct's head snapped up, his mouth open in shock. "Wha...wait, _you're_ the Bone Butcher's brother?" he demanded wide-eyed. The Senior Hit-Wizard rolled his eyes, exasperated at the other's turn-about in attitude.

"_Bone Butcher_?" Corporal Faulks said slowly, "I've nev..."

"Did he really kill a nundu with his bare teeth at the age of six?" the adjunct leaned forward excitedly.

"Ermm...no," Corporal Faulks gave the other man a strange look, unconsciously shuffling his chair further away from him, "I think I would have noticed if he'd molested any giant, disease breathing, jaguar like cats then, particularly since we lived in a particularly boring part of Staffordshire at the time."

"Oh," the adjunct's face fell.

"He got bitten by the school gerbil once if that's any help," Corporal Faulks offered, "seriously, the reason my brother is like this," he held up the photo so they could see, " is all down to that dangerous lunatic Carrow." He gestured to the pile of photographs, "well, you've seen him...what he's capable of..."

"Yes, Carrow," the Senior Hit-Wizard sighed, "tell us about Carrow. Start with when you first met him...and don't leave anything out no matter how small or insignificant you think it might be..."

OOOOOO

Ron shifted uncomfortably; he'd managed to wrench his shoulder at the last Defence Club meeting. They'd been having a melee style fight, no holds barred, absolutely brilliant, but then he'd gone and landed awkwardly. He hadn't really felt anything at the time, but now...he winced and shifted again.

"Mr Weasley, if you would stand still, please," Professor McGonagall frowned at him, "we wish to make a good impression after all!" She glared at the remains of Hermione's hair, lips narrowed with displeasure.

He sighed heavily to himself, Hermione shooting him a sympathetic look; this was going to be a very long evening. The shoulder twinged again. Should he take it to Madam Pomfrey? He shuddered at the thought of the interrogation he would be subjected to and then the following lecture. Sure, he wouldn't be in any pain afterwards, but honestly, Madam Pomfrey was getting seriously scary when anyone from the DC turned up in the Infirmary.

"Alright?" Hermione murmured.

"Just my shoulder," he muttered back.

"I've got some extra-strong bruise balm in my trunk, might be worth a try," Hermione said quietly, "bet Neville would put it on for you later."

"Thanks," he gave her a small grin.

"Neville Longbottom!" came a furious shout. Ron and Hermione peered round. There stood a slightly guilty looking juvenile bear, a furious Professor McGonagall standing before him, hands on hips. "Your human form, _now, _young man."

Neville rapidly reverted.

"Thank you, Mr Longbottom," the irate Professor snapped.

Ron and Hermione did their best to hide their amusement, before their mood slipped back into boredom, as the school waited in its entirety on the steps of the main doors for the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to arrive.

"I've got everything prepared for that thing we discussed," Hermione said softly. Ron's head whipped round, he had to admit he'd forgotten about it...but...oh, of course...Halloween.

"Uhmm...Hermione, is it wise? I mean the school's going to be crawling with people," he said, looking at her dubiously.

"Which means everyone will be too preoccupied to notice us." She gave a small smirk. Ron winced; he was coming to realise that _that_ expression only meant trouble and strife to those Hermione had set her sights on.

"I suppose," he agreed, dubiously moving his shoulder carefully. "What are we going to do at the next meeting?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"How about target practise?" Hermione suggested, "we've got all those crossbows Su Li discovered now..."

"Look!" a Ravenclaw shouted, "over there, above the trees! What is it?"

Ron sighed, looking where the noisy idiot had pointed. He squinted at the rapidly approaching dot...was that a muggle plane?

"So...the house-elves managed to mend them all right?" he asked as he watched the dot resolve into a flying...he wasn't quite sure...

"Oh yes," Hermione agreed, "we should have enough to go round. At least we can work on our aim while we're waiting to get proper guns."

Ron nodded distractedly. "Is that what I think it is?"

Hermione stared with growing disbelief at the approaching object. "It's a giant flying carriage drawn by giant flying horses." She stared at the powder blue conveyance in mild revulsion. "Why did they have to paint it such a vile colour?"

Ron shrugged; it certainly wasn't his cup-of-tea, but he wasn't exactly an expert on these sorts of things, mainly living in camo these days, with not even a trace of Chuddley Cannons orange. He sighed wistfully to himself, as the enormous carriage settled on the lawn with a thump, the huge horses snorting and stamping their hooves, their breath misting in the frosty air.

"Might as well have a huge flashing target on it," Hermione muttered. Ron couldn't help but grin as the door opened and steps unfolded, gilded twiddly things, more decorative than anything else. A huge lady eased her way out and down the steps followed by a gaggle of boys and girls clad in silky blue robes, with shoulder capes that fluttered in the stiff breeze that whisked in off the lake.

They didn't look very warm.

"She's almost as large as Professor Carrow," Ron commented too loudly. Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and Ron ducked his head, blushing.

"Huh, doubt any of them will be joining us for our morning run." Hermione glared at the Beauxbatons students in disgust as the Headmaster greeted Madam Maxime to Hogwarts, and invited her and her students inside to warm up. The students were pale and immaculately turned out, looking as if they'd never ever had to lift a single perfectly manicured finger in their lives.

"Might surprise us," Ron said dubiously, "but I wouldn't hold your breath. I mean, look at that blonde lad at the back, I bet he'd faint if he had to face down an acromantula with just a knife."

"At least he'd make a useful distraction," Hermione suggested, "you could get a decent kill-strike in while the Acromantula was eating him."

"True, true," Ron nodded rolling his shoulder, trying to stop it cramping in the chilly air, "now if only the Durmstrang lot would hurry up and arrive..."

But it was not to be; half an hour of standing in the cold later, a scowling and uncomfortable Ron watched unimpressed as the masts of the Durmstrang ship rose majestically from the surface of the Black Lake.

"About ruddy time," he growled softly, glaring at the tall and shifty looking man with a silly looking goatee who sauntered down the gangplank. A dozen students followed after him, all clad in sensible looking red robes with fur lined cloaks. They still looked weedy to Ron's eyes; one of them actually flinched when he'd glared at them.

At least they got to go in the warm now.

oOo

"To your _actual_ house tables, _please_." Professor Snape glared at them as the Defence Club tried to join Greg and Millie at the Slytherin table.

"Yes sir," Ron meekly said to his almost-uncle, giving his Slytherin comrades an apologetic shrug. He trailed sadly over to the Gryffindor table, Hermione, Neville and Colin Creevy following in his wake.

"Well...blast," Hermione said, "looks like we won't be able to bash out the obstacle course plans now..."

"What is this..."

"Could it be..."

Ron whipped round, wary and puzzled.

"A long lost Weasley..." George dramatically clasped his hands to his chest.

"The prodigal son returned to the fold..." Fred pantomimed joyous tears.

"And look how he's grown," George sighed.

"And filled out too," Fred added.

George nodded sagely. "Mum's going to be revolting about it...and then she'll try and feed him up."

"You pair of daft sods," Ron shook his head at his older brothers' antics, "honestly, you saw me this morning."

The Twins looked at one another, their mood suddenly switching to sombre. "Actually Ron, it's been over three weeks since you last sat at the Gryffindor table for an entire meal," Fred said, George nodding in agreement. "Every other table, but this one; in fact, I reckon you've spent more time with the Slytherins than here. And as for this morning, we saw you charge up to your dorm covered in mud and laden with a giant back-pack full of Merlin knows what. We didn't actually get to speak to you."

Ron stared at them, guilt tugging at his mind. "Erm..." He shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

"It's okay," Fred said, raising a placating hand.

"Seriously, we understand you've got a serious hobby," George said.

"Even more than Quidditch," Fred commented.

"We've been doing those...extra projects," George leaned forward conspiratorially, "for Uncle Sev."

"So we understand, we do. Just don't forget..." Fred continued.

"We're your brothers," they chorused.

Ron laughed uneasily. "Don't worry, I won't."

"Everything all right, Hermione?" Neville suddenly asked.

"Yes," Hermione said from where she sat, twisted round to watch the rest of the tables, "just checking Su Li is alright, you know how she can get."

The Twins winced. "She's got serious issues," Fred said darkly.

George nodded. "She's not really safe in a school full of children," he said grimly.

They watched the unassuming looking Ravenclaw for a moment, but she seemed quite settled between her minders, despite the unsettling proximity of the Beauxbatons students.

"Oh, look who it is," a disgruntled voice snarked from Ron's left. He turned to find Seamus and Dean glaring at the DC contingent.

"Oh, err...hey, guys," Neville greeted them with a nervous smile.

Seamus scowled. "Decided to hang around with your actual House mates for once? Nice of you."

"Seriously, it's not like that, not at all," Ron raised his hands in a placating gesture.

"Why don't you two come and join the Defence Club as well," Hermione leaned forward, a slightly manic gleam in her eyes, "we're always looking for new members."

"We're not that crazy," Seamus said flatly.

"We _like_ being alive," Dean added, "unlike some idiots."

Undeterred, Hermione turned to the Twins. "What about you two?" she asked.

"Ermm...just no..." Fred and George shifted away slightly down the bench, "we've got other things to do," one twin explained, "we're really not into this...stabby...shouty...shooty sort of thing at all."

"Exactly" his brother said, "more the subtly art of enchantment, sleight-of-hand, moving in the shadows, pranking..."

Ron shook his head sadly; if only they would try it, they would see just how wrong they were.

The food arrived at that moment, effectively stifling the conversation as the students, hungry after so long in the cold, tucked into dishes familiar and not so familiar. "What's that?" Ron asked of a particularly strange looking stew.

Hermione swallowed her mouthful of beef stew. "Bouillabaisse," she said. Ron looked at her blankly. "It's French," she elaborated, "had it on holiday before, it's really nice. Try some," she encouraged.

Ron looked at it dubiously. "I think I'll pass for the moment."

"...how did your summer go, Nev," drifted across the table, "we haven't really seen enough of you to ask," Dean said, managing to mask his sarcasm almost completely.

"Well umm...it was okay," Neville replied, just as the first rubber duck hit the edge of a soup tureen and skittered off down the table. A few more followed it as Ron hastily pulled out an old golf umbrella he kept shrunk in his pocket for just this eventuality. And then the trickle turned into a flood of football sized pale blue ducks with gleaming red eyes, greeted with shrieks and yelps of surprise from the foreign students.

"What sort of _barbarian_ place is this?" a particularly outraged Beauxbatons student shrieked as she leapt up from her place at the Ravenclaw table, shielding her head with one arm as she fumbled for her wand.

Ron and Hermione watched the blonde girl in mild amusement. "Drama queen," Hermione decided, turning back to her meal. Ron shook his head as Ravenclaw table, now a sea of floating books and experimental conjured umbrellas, was pelted by a particularly hard squall of rubber ducks. He narrowed his eyes at the Durmstrang students who currently sat among the Slytherin students, many desperately holding their cloaks over their heads or conjuring shields. Was that Victor Krum, star Seeker of the national Bulgarian Squad? He blinked in surprise. Maybe Greg and Millie could introduce him, see if he could get an autograph. Maybe something good would come of this stupid tournament after all.

"...best summer ever really," Neville was saying, "I ermm...I pranked Uncle Algie," he gave a sheepish grin, "got him right and proper too."

"What did you do?" Dean asked.

"Oh I, err...hid in his wardrobe while he was having a bath and then...then," he chuckled nervously, "I jumped out at him as Grizzly when he opened it. Screamed like anything he did, and ran out of the bedroom...so I err, chased him down the landing and down the stairs, and erm...well, Gran's luncheon club was just coming out of their meeting just as Uncle Algie want past, and he'd err...sort of lost his towel at some point, so Gran wasn't too impressed." He sniggered. "Uncle Algie had lectures about the importance of proper dress in public for _weeks_ afterwards. It was brilliant." He gave his friends a dreamy smile.

Ron stared at his friend in awe, rather impressed; talk about mayhem. "And what did your Gran think about...Grizzly?" he asked.

"Gran was really proud," Neville said after a moment's thought, "yes...I think she nearly burst into tears, kept telling me how proud my Dad would have been...Gran sorted the greenhouse out for me, fixed it and that, to congratulate me I suppose," he drifted off happily, "...yeah, it was an absolutely brilliant summer."

Ron chewed a roast parsnip thoughtfully; his summer had been rather uneventful in comparison, meeting up with some of the other DC'ers to go running and practice self-defence, preferably not near his Mum. Hermione had joined them regularly until she'd gone on her summer internship in August. Unfortunately, Dad hadn't been able to get tickets to the Quidditch World Cup, but he'd been able to listen to it on the wireless; it had sounded really exciting and the Daily Prophet had hailed the event as a _Triumph for Wizarding Britain!_ Even his homework hadn't been too bad...

He idly turned to watch the Head table. Headmaster Dumbledore was cheerfully watching the fall of rubber ducks from under a particularly vibrant rainbow striped umbrella, completely unfazed. McGonagall was looking thin-lipped and disapproving of the silliness that was going on around her, her dark tartan umbrella equally severe and proper. Uncle Sev- Ron hid a grin- the usual bats that edged Uncle Sev's umbrella were doing loop-the-loops today. It looked brilliant and was getting funny looks from the Durmstrang Headmaster.

"...what _is_ going on, Dumbledore?" The melodious tenor of Madam Maxine drifted over, as she cast a glittering blue shield above her head. "I do not remember any indication that your establishment was so...so..." Words apparently failed her.

The Headmaster gave her a cheery smile. "Oh, merely a student prank gone awry from last year, I'm afraid. We thought we'd dismantled it, but it appears that the Castle herself rather enjoyed it, and so now, as you see..." He gestured at the hall, sighing in amused frustration.

Madam Maxine stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "The Castle?" she asked.

"Hmm, indeed," Dumbledore smiled, "it's one of the problems of old Magical buildings...after a while they start to acquire a certain sentience."

He rose from his seat, twirling his colourful umbrella, flicking his wand in a shower of sparks and a thunderous bang. "If I may have your attention," he announced to the sea of startled students, "it is now time for the lighting of the Goblet of Fire." He smiled round the hall. "I'm sure you are all terribly excited."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, right," he muttered softly to himself.

A couple of house-elves appeared with a pop and manoeuvred a small table into place. On top a battered wooden box was placed. Dumbledore and the other delegates of the Tri-Wizard tournament walked round the High Table to stand clustered around it. The Goblet of Fire itself was quickly revealed to be an unassuming object, small and rather plain. Ron glared suspiciously at it with narrowed eyes; if there was one thing Professor Carrow had taught them, it was to expect danger from the most unexpected of places...

"...and with that, may the Tri-Wizard Tournament begin!" Dumbledore announced waving an arm dramatically. A spark flickered to life within the cup, glowing red-gold before spluttering into a pillar of fire, finally settling down into an ethereal flicker.

The students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons cheered and applauded, some rising from their seats in their excitement. The Hogwarts students clapped politely.

"We want Quidditch," some wag shouted from the back.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm sure once you've witnessed the first task you will feel the sacrifice of the Quidditch cup well worth it." He raised a placating hand. "Now, after the feast, the cup will be moved into place in the Entrance Hall so those who wish to enter may do so. The tournament is open to all those seventeen and above _only_, as a safety precaution. We do wish to avoid the type of tragedies that have so marred past tournaments. In order to ensure this, I will be placing an age-line around th..."

"ALL PRAISE THE LIVING GOD-EMPEROR," a thunderous growling bellow, so deep to be barely understandable, drowned out the Headmaster, "PROTECTOR AND GUIDER OF HUMANITY!"

Ron turned in his seat, trying desperately not to laugh, as the bellowing continued. There in his favourite spot was Chaplain Caius, delivering his usual passionate speech- in English! A little stilted to be sure, but his meaning was perfectly clear. Odd, he thought, could portraits actually learn?

oOo

Barty clumped as quietly as he could down the back corridor and out into the Entrance Hall; he had had to wait bloody ages for all the really sneaky brats to clear off from putting their names in the stupid cup. A couple of them even sprouted beards, apparently a side effect of the age-line; he'd laughed himself silly at their panicked expressions. Just the thought of it was causing him to grin. He looked around, suddenly wary; but a few careful charms revealed nothing living in the vicinity. Quickly, he fished a torn slip of parchment from his pocket bearing the legend _Allesandor Darius Carrow_, a decent pureblood name if ever he'd seen one, but apparently the man was a dangerous and up-coming Dark Lord, and a threat to his Master.

And it had been almost impossible at first to find the man's signature. For such an important Ministry official, the man was incredibly elusive, hardly ever mentioned in the Prophet, and not so much as a picture or a mention of anything personal, not even his age or where he was schooled. It was almost as if the man was being ignored, which was very strange, considering what most Ministry types were like.

And so, he'd gone through all sorts of ridiculous plans, each more outrageous than the last, before he finally had the clever idea of questioning the Old Bastard. Carrow worked at the Ministry, Moody worked as a consultant for the DMLE, and so had access to areas of the Ministry civilians didn't normally have, therefore...

Moody had proved to be surprisingly helpful, and had revealed some truly disturbing information. _Carrow_ had been _here_ at Hogwarts, had, in fact, taught Defence himself for four months or so, and had single-handedly almost managed to drive the entire student body insane. The bloody Defence Club was probably his idea, run exclusively by his most ardent disciples. At least now he knew who was responsible for the blasted duelling pit at the back of the classroom that the Defence Club was so obsessed with. So the man must have left something behind; it was inevitable, no matter how careful you were.

He searched and searched both his office and the classroom, turned them upside down, looking for something, anything really. A mummified string of garlic bulbs, what was _that_ about, a rather crumpled picture of Gilderoy Lockhart, which was obviously highly distraught at the creases that marred its surface, a dusty jar of pickled doxies. And then, hidden, literally jammed down the back of some drawers he had hit gold, a large tome that- it was almost as though someone had deliberately hid it- appeared to be class plans for every year, of such detail and complexity it was mind boggling; and the things the lunatic author wanted to _teach_. Barty blanched at some of the descriptions of sword drills and team exercises designed to clear the undead from civilian habitation. And on the front page, written in incredibly precise but rather ugly handwriting was exactly what he was after. Allesandor Darius Carrow had signed his handiwork. Was the man so foolishly over confident he felt he didn't need to ward his mark against people using it maliciously? Shaking his head sadly at the stupidity of others, he had carefully torn the signature out.

Holding the torn slip of parchment out, he now sidled up to the cup and tossed it in. The cup flared slightly, before subsiding. Barty relaxed with a sigh; part one of the plan complete. At least now he could bloody well go to bed. He eyed the Entrance Hall warily, trying to ignore the sense of being watched, the slight flickering of motion in a couple of paintings on the edge of his vision setting his nerves on edge. He never remembered Hogwarts being quite this...spooky when he was a youngster. And now he was starting to sound like an old man. He'd tried asking about it, but the other staff all directed him towards Snape. And Snape was avoiding him...

As he made hobbled back towards the corridor, there was a soft whoosh as of flames suddenly building, and then a soft pop, followed by a rustle...

He turned, puzzled and suspicious, wand drawn; too many damn brats hanging around doing stupid things. Had he triggered some sort of prank? But there on the floor was a crumpled ball of parchment. Hobbling over, Barty leant over painfully to retrieve it. It was the parchment he'd just put in.

Annoyed, he limped back to the cup and shoved the blasted thing back in, glaring at the stupid cup all the while. Had it been spelled to only accept school students? Did he need to hex the wretched thing to override its usual behaviour? Scowling he turned and hobbled away, the siren-song of sleep calling to him.

Something small hit him on the back of the head, hard, and fell to the floor with a rustle. Barty jumped out of his skin, wand raised, looking round the Entrance Hall frantically. Seeing nothing, he turned...to find the crumpled parchment lying mere feet away.

With a snarl, he scooped it up and stomped angrily back to the cup. Swearing under his breath, he cast the strongest Confundus charm on the blasted thing he could, before stuffing the parchment back in regardless of his fingers, but almost immediately the flames flared an angry red and the parchment was forcefully ejected. Barty rocked back, his vision greying at the edges, the stinging blow to his forehead sure to leave a bruise. Just what he needed...oh Merlin's beard! What was he going to do now? He daren't put it back in again.

Scooping up the parchment, he shoved it in a pocket, looking round frantically before hobbling off.

He almost fell down the ladder into the trunk, such was his haste, his Master scowling at his unseemly behaviour.

"My Lord...my Lord," he gasped trying to get his breath back, "the blasted cup...it wouldn't accept...I tried putting _his_ name in...three times...but it...spat it back out...even after a Confundus charm..." he trailed off nervously waiting for the terrible explosion of rage, but it never it came.

Voldemort sat in his high chair staring at him, emotionless, shoulders hunched, hands wringing reflexively. "What to do, what to do," he muttered softly, gazing around sightlessly, till his gaze rested on the vile box lurking malevolently by his chair.

"We have no choice, we are going to have to kidnap him!" Voldemort hissed viciously, his eyes desperate. "He's a Ministry bureaucrat, it shouldn't be too far beyond your...abilities." His usual sneer hid a well of desperation. "If not, then..." his gaze dropped to the evil box once more.

Barty swallowed nervously; he couldn't fail at this, he just couldn't, because if he did...he didn't know what was in that box, and he hoped and prayed that he never found out, but one thing was very clear to him. If the Dark Lord opened it, then the consequences would be terrible.

He had to protect his Master; he couldn't..._mustn't, _fail.

OOOOOO

It was a beautiful morning, sunny and unseasonably warm, not a cloud in the sky, which in his experience didn't bode very well, Snape thought, as he watched the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, while waiting for his morning edition of the Daily Prophet to arrive so he could indulge in his favourite hobby, speculating over what tricks Carrow had managed to pull this time...and maybe marvel at the increased quality of the paper. No longer did it resemble the very worst of the muggle gutter-press; on a good day it was now almost level pegging with the Guardian...and he didn't even mean it as an insult.

"Severus...the _insanity! _Do the faculty here have no control?" an angry voice broke through his musing. There, striding up the slowly filling hall, was Karkoroff, looking rather rattled.

"Good morning." Snape gave his one-time Death Eater comrade a small grin designed just to annoy.

Karkaroff glared. "What's good about it? Being woken at six in the morning, by a group of...of youths, shouting "one, two, one, two", and then all the _bellowing _and _screaming_ and _clashing_ of weapons..."

"Oh, that's just the Defence Club having their early morning run," Snape said a little distractedly. Finally, the post owls were arriving, though why were several heading his way? A sense of foreboding settled over him as he took in the parcel the beautiful snowy owl was carrying. Not another "little gift" from the great lump. They were far more trouble than they were worth; though the shrunken heads had been rather good. He'd hung them up in his office, giving the place some much needed ambience. On the other hand, the still beating remains of an inferi heart he could have well done without.

The letter was...oh, Aquila Industries' R&amp;D department asking for his expertise in a metallurgy experiment of some kind; ooh, that sounded interesting...

"...and that little oriental girl. I swear she was frothing at the mouth and attacking everything indiscriminately...and _some_ idiot had even given her a _war hammer_ of all things, and that so-called teacher was just standing there, watching her with the most apathetic attitude...Severus, are you even listening to me?"

Snape looked around with a start. "Oh, yes, yes, of course. I wouldn't worry about Su Li, she's just a bezerker, very talented. As long as she's got her friends nearby, everything will be fine...and I'm sure Moody had everything in hand." Snape gave a suspicious glance along the table. He was sure the man sitting there, warily poking a poached egg, was an imposter and he really felt no inclination to help the man, like letting him know that now Su Li was immune to the effects of calming drafts, a rather good way of soothing her was to sing _Auld Land Signe_. According to her friends it worked like a charm, even better than _Morning Has Broken_, or _Kumbaya_.

He returned to his vexatious post. The Daily Prophet, on the other hand, looked wonderfully thick, another bumper issue. What had Carrow done this time? He unfolded the paper with a satisfying snap and then paused. The photograph gazed back at him, the two girls, shock-dazed eyes in pale faces, halos of mussed hair, cocooned in rather basic robes and blankets, a hand reached out to a shoulder as an Auror led them past the camera.

He looked at the picture credit- Rita Skeeter- so she was talented with a camera as well as a quill, who'd have thought it? He gave the article a cursory look-over, and then started reading it properly. He blinked in surprise; _Merlin_, Rita really could write, had she been looking at muggle papers?

"Anything interesting?" Karkoroff asked over his shoulder. Snape rolled his eyes, and handed over the front section; so he'd lost the sports section too...blast, he'd scrounge it back later. So what was left?

Strange sightings of an unidentified creature in the wilds of Gloucester...some sort of troll hybrid... Snape gave a disbelieving huff, looked more suitable for the Quibbler than a supposedly respectable family paper...he turned the page with a sharp crack...an appeal for donations for the Sunshine Rescue Home for Puffskeins. Blasted little creatures, wasn't as if they were any use in potions making, even though apparently they were handy to kill Death Eaters with...some idiot caught with his pants down in a public place, and then promptly hexed by an expert in experimental charms, the moron was still in St Mungo's while they tried to work out what she'd done to him...and then a smallish article caught his attention...

..._wands found on the bodies identified as those belonging to Amycus and Alecto Carrow (not related to our esteemed Senior Undersecretary)..._

_...muggle experts working in conjunction with the DMLE believe the deceased may have lain undiscovered for as long as eighteen months..._

_...neighbours described the brother and sister as quiet, tending to keep themselves to themselves, rarely being seen in public..._

"Oh Merlin," Karkaroff gasped next to him. Snape jerked round with a scowl to find the annoying man had been reading the paper over his shoulder.

"Do you mind," he snarled but Karkaroff took no notice.

"There aren't many of us left," the Durmstrang Headmaster murmured in a daze.

Maybe it was a little horrifying, but he was more inclined to see the Carrow twins' demise as rather poetic, two pure-blood Death Eaters lying dead and undiscovered in a rented muggle property for nearly two years. He was going to have to find some way of subtly congratulating Carrow on that one. "No, there aren't, are there?" he replied, maybe a little too cheerfully, considering the odd look Karkaroff gave him.

And now for the dreaded parcel. He cautiously put an ear against it; well, at least it wasn't making any noises, that was a positive beginning. Cautiously, he worked through his array of detection charms, before slowly and carefully opening it. The rather plain cardboard box lurked ominously among the brown paper daring him to open it.

"It can't be that awful, can it?" Karkaroff asked, his normally jovial personality trying to reassert itself. Snape gave him a flat glare. With the tip of his wand, he gently lifted the lid of the box, to reveal a carefully packed glass jar containing..._a unicorn foetus..._

Snape hurriedly stuffed the thing back in the box; where the _hell_...how the _hell_ had Carrow got his hands on such a thing. His mind tumbled frantically; he didn't think it was illegal to own such a thing, but that was most likely because nobody had managed to obtain one, and lived to tell the tale. So how had Carrow...what had he done...and did he really want to know?

He hurriedly resealed the box as Karkaroff started to pay too much attention. "Just some delicate potions ingredients an acquaintance sent me...without warning, as usual," he scowled darkly.

Karkaroff grimaced in disgust at the possible contents, quickly returning to the disembowelled paper. That had been close, Snape thought; best not to relax now or he'd really be in trouble. He hated to think what the Headmaster's reaction would be.

oOo

The sense of foreboding had only increased as the day progressed, and Snape was now stuck restlessly herding errant brats to their actual house tables and dodging over enthusiastic Halloween decorations. The blasted Defence Club had a lot to answer for. Yes, uniting the houses as effectively as they had managed was worthy and all that, and had certainly improved the morale of the school, but unfortunately the camo-clad menaces had become a law unto their own, roaming from house-table to house-table. And so, when it came to occasions like these...

"Creevy, to your house table _now_!" he snarled at the skinny Gryffindor. The boy froze, his eyes comically wide under his thick fringe (Snape struggled not to laugh) before scurrying back the way he had come, his large black boots slapping on the tiled floor, plonking himself down not far from some of the ring-leaders of the DC, Weasley, Granger and...a Grizzly bear. He glared furiously; the blasted creature turned very guiltily back into Longbottom. He gave the ridiculous boy a curt nod, gritting his teeth in annoyance. At least the foreign students were behaving themselves, though that could be more down to bewilderment and fear, he thought, as he swept past the pale-blue clad Beauxbatons contingent who huddled together at the Ravenclaw table staring warily around them.

Then of course there were Carrow's plans, which were fraught with disaster. If the Headmaster found out what they were about to attempt...he shivered; the sooner this evening was over, the better.

The amplified tapping of a fork against a goblet broke through the chattering of the collected students. A glance at the high table revealed the Headmaster gazing around with a cheerful smile, though it looked a little more jaded than normal, as he nodded politely at some joke that the official from the Sports department of the Ministry was telling him...Bagman, he thought his name was, a washed-up Quidditch player; next to him, sat Crouch. Snape remembered Crouch from the war, a cold and calculating man with all the soul and heart of a dead fish...

He shuddered to himself as he made his way to his seat next to Karkaroff. The other man was giving the large chair next to him rather dubious looks.

"Severus," he hissed quietly, "why is there a chair of..._skulls _at the table?"

Severus smirked at him, before taking a wonderfully soothing sip of coffee.

"A very good evening to you all," Dumbledore announced, "and a happy Halloween. I'm sure you're all very excited and increasingly impatient for the beginning of the feast and the Drawing of the Names...and we will begin, as soon as our last guest, Senior Under-Secretary Carrow has arrived..." his head cocked to one side for a moment, "...which I do believe will be very shortly."

The sound of the castle's front doors opening was followed by the soft rumble of new voices which grew steadily louder as they approached the Great Hall, the noise increasing and then dying as Filch pushed the large doors open, revealing the gloom of the Entrance Hall. Snape stared; how many people had Carrow brought with him? He blinked in surprise as some of Carrow's pet vampires walked in, clad in their tight leather bodysuits, various weapons, mainly knives, strapped to their limbs, gold skull masks covering their faces; behind them, were some of the new muggle military types Carrow had employed, fanned out near the doors casually cradling...rifles, he thought, their black uniforms bearing a passing resemblance to what Granger liked to wear, but smarter, less frayed. Camo cloaks and black berets with a yellow trim finished their attire. After them, Faulks and that annoying American werewolf sauntered up to the High Table; well, the werewolf sauntered, Faulks looked as rigid as a post, frozen and stiff as he came to stand behind him.

"Is Carrow experiencing a cultural misunderstanding?" Snape whispered discretely to the younger man. Faulks gave him a flat stare, before sighing.

"Something like that," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Snape turned back to the doors trying to hide his grin, sneakily taking a look down the High Table at the stunned teachers and Ministry officials, just as Carrow made his grand entrance. He actually had to put his hand over his mouth to suppress his mirth. A tear of laughter trickling down his cheek, he took in the Monster. The man had obviously seen this as a golden opportunity to dress up to the nines and never being one to back down, the results were...he looked like some author's bad fantasy idea of a Dark Lord, all embossed and gilded leather, golden braid, that overly mobile chain wrapped round his chest as usual, and an enormous cloak, black, gold trimmed, with a lining of werewolf pelt, the collar a particularly fine and shaggy example, which swirled grandly around him as he strode up the Great Hall, smirking like the apex predator he was, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, and followed by a little swarm of those ridiculous flying skull things, which swooped and dove among the floating pumpkins, trailing cables and feelers, chittering and burbling all the while.

Snape risked another look down the table. Karkaroff was frozen in his seat, eyes wide, face grey and sweaty as he watched this apparition swagger down the hall. "And people complained about the Dark Lord?!" he finally squeaked. Snape slapped a hand back over his mouth, desperately trying to save his reputation as the miserable bat of Hogwarts. Beyond Karkaroff, the Hogwarts staff sat in various states of shock, the Ministry personnel looking slightly more jaded. Even the Headmaster was rather wide-eyed, and beyond, Madam Maxine sat with a strange little smile on her lips. Had the Beauxbatons Headmistress developed some sort of _crush_ on Carrow? And beyond her was a scowling Hagrid looking sullenly and sulky...oh dear! And he had assumed that this whole competition thing was going to be so terribly dull...

The Headmaster briskly walked round the table. "Mr Carrow," Dumbledore clasped the other man's enormous hand, smiling warmly, "such a pleasure to see you as always."

"It is good to see you," Carrow rumbled, "outside the confines of government, Headmaster Dumbledore." He gazed around the hall, taking in the Ministry officials, the decorations, the foreign students peering out from under the tables where they had taken shelter, the cheering Defence Club members, some of whom had actually climbed onto the benches and were bouncing up and down. "Tis quite the celebration that you are having tonight. I am glad not to have missed it..."

"Indeed, indeed," Dumbledore patted his arm, "allow me to introduce you..."

oOo

Barty stared at the nightmare apparition that had appeared in the Great Hall, the small furry rodent part of his brain demanding he flee, or at least hide under the table like a sensible person. _This _was Allesandor Carrow? How was he supposed to kidnap _this_...this _monster_?


	5. Chapter 5

**_Author's Note_**

_I must apologise for the lateness of this chapter...by two days :-(_

_This past month had been absolutely miserable as I came down with a really nasty virus. I'm not sure whether it's just a bad cold or flu, but it had laid me low with lethargy and a nasty cough that just won't go away. Fortunately I'm now on the mend and feeling much better :-) though it's taken me long enough to shake it off._

_But now my poor beta had gone down with it. Poor Jacobus-Minoris is currently doing a fantastic impression of an over-cooked noodle while sounding like a forty-a-day smoker. Understandably he isn't very happy at the moment. Which means that unfortunately parts of this chapter haven't been as thoroughly subjected to his scrutiny as they might otherwise have been._

_Please wish him a speedy recovery, it would really cheer him up. Thank-you and enjoy :-D_

* * *

**Chapter 5**

The young lady from Beauxbatons shrieked and flapped her arms frantically as the indignant flying skull dive-bombed her repeatedly, chittering and warbling furiously all the while, before becoming tangled in the girl's hair. Her shouts turned to screams, and the servo-skull frantically tried to escape, the panicked shouts of her friends, their waving and slapping at the artificial construction doing little to help the situation. Fuming to himself, Snape swooped down on the empty headed idiots. "Sit down, and be quiet," he snarled at the little crowd of blue-clad students.

They fell silent, actually resuming their seats, more out of shock at this foreign teacher ordering them around. Snape glared at their worried expressions, the whimpering of the entangled girl drawing his attention back to the problem at hand.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," he muttered as he took in the girl's tear streaked face, her panic, discomfort and even a trace of fear. "Stay still, you silly girl," he snarled as he started the finicky task of detangling the two, the young lady complaining the entire time, until Snape gave into his growing frustration. "It would be considerably simpler if I just applied a cutting charm to this ridiculous hair style of yours," he snarled, "be thankful I am restraining myself...ah, finally." He carefully examined the newly freed artificial construct, checking it for damage. "What is this?" he asked the French students coldly, pointing to a splash of spell damage to the chittering thing's carapace.

The Beauxbaton students failed to meet his gaze, shuffling and fidgeting uncomfortably, until one of the boys piped up. "Sir, I, umm, it was..." He took a deep breath, flinching under the nasty glares of the others. "Miss Delacour cursed..._it,_ sir, when it got too close...it kept poking at the cruet set, sir...such awful dark magic, sir. Why is it allowed here? Why are _they _allowed here? "

Snape glowered nastily at the idiot, ignoring his questions. "And so you decided to rid yourselves of the...annoyance," Snape said slowly, "instead of doing the sensible thing, and approaching Mr Carrow or a member of his entourage and asking them to remove it..."

The Beauxbatons students stared at him as if he were mad. "Approach Mr Carrow?!" Miss Delacour said with a hysterical laugh. "Have you even looked at him properly? What is someone like _that, _doing in a school full of _children_?"

Snape looked towards the High Table, where the man in question lounged comfortably in his chair next to a pale and sweating Karkaroff, young Timothy standing behind discussing something with that annoying American werewolf. Looked completely normal to him, he thought with a disdainful sniff. He gave them all a last glare, before stalking away with the servo-skull cradled in his arms.

Ridiculous brats, making a fuss over nothing, he thought as he carefully examined the damage to the revolting...creature? The injury seemed quite superficial, a smear of burnt green, the underlying bone seeming unmarked. Carefully, he damped the corner of a napkin and gave the stain a cautious wipe, oblivious to the revulsion of Karkaroff and the interested stare of Carrow mere feet away.

oOo

It was rather curious, Snape thought, Carrow seemed to have the same effect on a...party, he supposed this was, as the Weasley twins in league with a swarm of pixies. What had started as a rather ordinary and orderly feast had turned into thinly veiled chaos with a side-helping of decadence. Students were sneakily jumping tables, hunkering down and hoping they wouldn't be seen. He watched in amusement as Colin Creevey and his younger brother snuck over to the Slytherin table, their plates in their hands, ducking behind people and even tiptoeing. Ridiculous children...if someone had told him even a year ago that he'd have problems with Gryffindors invading his House Table and his Slytherins actually helping them, he would have thought them confounded. Though stranger still was the growing fascination of some members of his House for muggle weaponry. Mr Goyle was not exactly being subtle as he approached some of the dark clad soldiers of Carrow's retinue. They seemed quite friendly though, and were soon chatting to the lad, pointing various things out on the guns he seemed so fascinated by...

...and then the Gryffindor table seemed to have become the unofficial home for the vampires...which was quite amusing. Snape's lips quirked with suppressed laughter as he took in the sensible students who'd all huddled together at one end of the table while the less sensible...and the Defence Club members...sat at the other end with a group of rather pale looking people, their eyes flashing red in the light of the Great Hall, their golden masks currently discarded, a lanky young (but who could really tell with vampires) man telling a story, which involved much arm waving, to his fascinated audience...

...but there was one missing, Natasha, the one who was able to walk in daylight...ah, there by the Ravenclaw table, and didn't those students look upset. Snape snorted to himself. Absolutely ridiculous, Natasha was...not helpless precisely, actually she was ruddy dangerous...but she certainly didn't deserve that sort of reaction. He glared viciously at some of the Ravenclaw and even Beauxbatons students who were making an increasingly big fuss as Natasha vaguely wandered their way. Snape started to rise from his chair...a third year with long dirty blonde hair approached the little vampire who was now swaying from foot to foot unseeing and gently took her hand, leading her away to an empty spot further down the table...

...One of the vampire ladies approached the High Table and Snape watched, idly toying with his lemon meringue pie, as she exchanged words with Carrow, too low for anyone with normal hearing to catch of course. It was so irritating; how was an honest eavesdropper supposed to collect gossip when they did that? Finally, she wandered off, dodging round that blasted cup, centre of all the current annoyance at the school, which was starting to flare up again...he leaned forward looking down the table. Had the others noticed? He had to quickly duck round again to avoid anyone spotting his laughter as he caught the tail-end of the simpering look Madam Maxine was directing at the utterly oblivious Carrow.

"Are you alright?" Karkaroff asked suspiciously, before flinching when the giant lump insisted on his attention again, something about the legal intricacies of Magical forms of manslaughter.

"A-ah, if I could all have your attention," the Headmaster announced cheerfully, "it appears that the Drawing of the Champions is now about to commence."

The noise level in the Great Hall did go down slightly and then went back to its previous level.

With a small sigh, Dumbledore held up his wand and let off a thunderous explosion of sparks and bangs. Which on second thoughts, Snape thought, probably wasn't the best thing to do in a room containing professional soldiers and vampires...and Carrow. There were some screams, a few clatters as students threw themselves under the tables, Carrow's soldiers looked rather unimpressed, and the vampires glared nastily from their place at the Gryffindor table.

Dumbledore smiled beatifically at them all. "Now I have your attention, it is time for the Drawing of the Champions," he gestured towards the now energetically flaming cup in front of the High Table, "I'm sure you're all absolutely beside yourselves with excitement..."

The cup suddenly flared as the mainly sullen student body watched it, a scrap of parchment carried aloft on top of a tongue of flame. Dumbledore snatched it out of the air and unrolled it. "The champion for Durmstrang is...Victor Krum!" He applauded enthusiastically as a gawky ungainly young man rose from the Slytherin table and shuffled forward. Snape watched him come forward and then go through the side-door the Headmaster directed him towards. Wasn't he supposed to be a big Quidditch star or something? Snape shrugged and turned back to the cup, which flared again, ejecting another slip of parchment.

"The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!"

That blasted young woman who'd attacked that poor servo-skull sauntered triumphantly up to the High Table with a smirk, Snape glaring nastily at her as she went past to the side-room. "And last but not least...the champion for Hogwarts is...Cedric Diggory!"

The sullen silence turned to surprise and then genuine applause, which Snape actually joined in. Just for once he actually approved of the choice; and now if only Carrow's blasted distraction would actually trigger, the waiting wasn't doing him any good, he was getting too old for this sort of thing...

"Headmaster...Headmaster!" the breathless shriek from the large landscape so beloved of Chaplain Caius cut through the din of the feast, even the noise of the Hufflepuffs celebrating their good fortune by singing Quidditch songs. Slightly off key too, if Snape was any judge.

"Oh, Headmaster Dumbledore, it's _terrible_!" the watery eyed man with a lace trimmed collar wrung his hands. "_It's_ got loose _again_! And it's attacked the centaurs on the fourth floor, and the mermaids in the prefect's bathroom, and the arm-wrestling trolls on the north back landing, and the..."

Snape blinked and carefully hid his growing nerves, and to his embarrassment a rising bubble of laughter, behind an emotionless mask. Apparently, it looked a little odd because Karkaroff started giving him odd (odder) looks. But really he couldn't help it, the die had been rolled, things had started moving. He rose slowly, making as to follow the other senior staff as they followed the Headmaster round the High Table. With a last glance back at the chaos, he carefully slipped out through the staff entrance.

oOo

Snape slipped along the corridor now realising a fundamental hole in their clever plan. They hadn't actually agreed on a meeting point; the only thing he could think to do was head towards the Defence class room and hope for the best. He ghosted across a corridor, slipped behind a tapestry and went down a spiral staircase, which paradoxically would take him two stories up. Looking around carefully, the corridor was deserted, even the picture frames were mostly empty, just the pastoral scene of grazing cows...he turned left and continued on his way...

A large hand grabbed his shoulder, and Snape whirled round trying hard to suppress a surprised squeak, wand in his grip so fast it might as well have apparated. Carrow stood behind him, grinning like a large and predatory cat. So the great big lump had pulled one of his ridiculous vanishing acts, how he did it Snape couldn't even begin to fathom...

"The distraction appears to be satisfactory," Carrow commented as they continued towards the Defence classroom. "What precisely did you tell Brother Dreadnought Steadfast?"

"Ah, well, I left it rather open," Snape said feeling slightly uncomfortable. Had he done the right thing? He was, despite many long conversations with the Battle-brothers still not completely clear on their complex inner thoughts. "I understand Brother Dreadnought Steadfast is a highly trained professional and a veteran of many campaigns...so as long as the desired results were achieved, I left the execution very much up to his judgment."

Carrow looked down at him in mild surprise.

"He did seem rather excited about it," Snape commented.

"No doubt," Carrow chuckled, "I suspect the Castle's paintings will never ever be the same again."

OOOOOO

They ran quickly past a portrait of some very outraged Elizabethan ladies in huge ruffs, before diving behind a tapestry with a hunting scene on it, and into a secret passage which turned into a spiral staircase.

"This is a really _bad _idea," Ron grumbled as he tried to run up the dark stairs without falling flat on his face.

"Shush," Hermione snapped, "it will be fine, you'll see."

She grabbed a basket from an alcove and then peered round the corner into the corridor where the History classroom and Binn's office were located.

"Right, all clear," she muttered before slipping out, her burden carefully cradled against her chest. They paused nervously by the office door, their faces pale in the torch-light. The door proved to be locked, no surprise there, so Hermione started to work through her repertoire of Unlocking and basic ward diagnosis charms. Ron had to admit he was impressed; frankly, if this was the sort of thing a month with Har...Carrow taught you, then he might be signing up himself next summer. The door clicked open and Hermione gave a triumphant grin. They slipped into the dark room, closing the door behind them. Ron sneezed twice in rapid succession as Hermione cast a small lumos charm illuminating the interior of the office.

"Merlin," Ron breathed, "I don't think it's been touched since Binns died. If Mum saw this, she'd do her nut."

Hermione ran a critical finger through the thick dust on the desk; it came away black. She glanced back at Ron. "I think you're right," she muttered, looking around at the cobwebs and neglect with concern, "I don't think the house-elves have been able to get in here to clean at all." She glared down at the filthy floor. "Right," she snapped, pointing her wand at the floor, "here will do."

Ron did his best to help, but cleaning charms weren't exactly his forte, so he stood back out of the way and watched as Hermione cleaned the central part of the floor of its coating of dust and dirt, revealing a gaudily patterned rug. The rug was rolled up and summarily plonked in a corner, and then Hermione began to pull things out of the basket, a bag of something, a bundle of fat candles, and other items, rune engraved stones, a dried fire-lizard, a nautilus shell, a bundle of feathers tied with a yellow ribbon, some sort of crystal ball...what was she up to?

Grabbing the small bag, Hermione began to walk in a circle, carefully leaving a small trail behind her.

"What's that?" Ron asked.

"Salt," Hermione sounded rather distracted, "let me concentrate," she muttered.

Feeling like a spare limb, Ron sat and watched as she drew another circle outside the first one. Casting a Find-me charm Hermione carefully located north and began to draw a nine pointed star within the double circles. Ron eyed it nervously, he didn't know anything really about this sort of magic, but he'd listened to enough of Bill's stories. "Um, Hermione, is this safe?" he asked tentatively.

Hermione looked up from the work of filling in the space between the two circles with a seemingly random collection of runes and sigils. "It'll be fine, you'll see." She gave him a grin before going back to her work.

Ron didn't feel at all reassured.

Hermione handed him the bundle of candles. "One at every point...beginning at that one, please," she said as she made a dive for the remaining objects. Carefully melting the bottom of each candle, he stuck them to the floor as close to each point as he could manage, watching as Hermione placed the crystal ball inside the northern most point, working her way round. Next came the bundle of feathers...and then the dried fire-lizard...the nautilus shell...and then last of all the rune engraved stones. Once the candles and several incense cones were lit the final effect was rather like something he'd read in one of Bill's horror novels when he was just eight; it still gave him the creeps even now.

"Now what?" he asked, trying to ignore the way his voice had squeaked.

"Now we activate the circle, it should be just like in Ancient Runes..." she pulled her wand out and, moving to the northern side of the circle touched the tip to her salt creation. Hermione scrunched her face up in concentration, a bead of sweat trickling down her forehead from some invisible effort...and then a ripple of pale blue light spread across the circle, the salt taking on an ethereal glow , the runes seeming to dance in the gloom, the candles burning with an acidic green light.

Hermione beamed in triumph. "It worked," she exclaimed, "brilliant!"

"You mean you weren't sure you could do this," Ron asked, his freckles standing out starkly on his face, "I hope you're not making this up as you go along," he grumbled, fear clenching at his gut.

Hermione glared at him. "No, I spent _hours_ researching this. I just wasn't sure whether I'd be able to activate the entire circle or have to do it rune by rune." She turned and began to search through the basket. When she turned round she was holding a bone handled knife of a sort Ron thought might be a scramasaex, and in her other hand she gripped the scruff of a...

"_Hermione_...uhmm, is that rabbit alive?" he asked, feeling utterly out of his depth.

"Well, of course it is," Hermione said positioning herself carefully at the south of the circle, "not much use if it wasn't."

"Oh...right...well, that's good I suppose," he shifted back, his instincts screaming at him that this entire thing was a really, _really_ bad idea, as Hermione knelt beside the circle, the rabbit held up, now limply struggling. He couldn't understand everything she was chanting, but occasional words would pop out at him...Hecate...Mother of witches...Earthly realm...Hades...Cuthbert Binns...banish...Hel...

...and then with a dramatic flourish, expression frighteningly intense, she slashed the knife across the rabbit's throat in a spray of blood. The life-fluid of the rabbit splashed across the circle like some ghastly rain, each drop illuminated ruby-like by the glowing circle. With a thud, the now lifeless body of the rabbit landed with a thud in the middle of the circle. Ron jerked in surprise, heart hammering in his chest. "Now what?" he gasped.

"Erm...well...I'm not entirely sure," Hermione sat back on her heels, watching the circle with a frown, "and...I don't think we should poke it to find out either."

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence, the air heavy with magic and apprehension.

A tiny crackling sound caught Ron's attention. "Hermione," he whispered frantically, looking round at her, but she was already staring at the circle, eyes wide with horror. Ron's gaze jerked down just in time to see the rabbit carcass snap in two as something underneath it pulled it down with a jerk, in a spray of gore and pulverised meat...

"Oh shi..." he exclaimed.

OOOOOO

Barty hobbled along as quickly as he could with the stupid wooden leg hindering his movements. Thank Merlin for that distraction; at least now he was able to slip away and inform the Dark Lord of the latest developments, that Carrow was...was...some sort of giant hybrid, except he didn't have that lumpen bulky look, and he was obviously highly intelligent, and _dangerous_...so dangerous...

Barty's mind whirled frantically, desperately trying to see some sort of way out of this mess...kidnap him? How was he supposed to do _that_...that shark like smile...and...and the way he kept looking at him! It was like Carrow _knew_ he wasn't the Old Bastard.

He looked around the corridor frantically, jumping and twitching at slight movements, at oddly shaped shadows. By the time he got to his office door, he was sidling along with his back to the wall, wand out, convinced he was being followed. With great relief, he shoved the door open, closing it behind him with a resounding thunk. He leant against it with a sigh of relief; now he just had to figure out what he was going to tell the Dark Lord. He could just imagine the temper fit his Master was probably going to throw right now...

A large hand reached out of the shadows, but before he could cry out it had clamped itself over his mouth, and a pair of green eyes gleamed down maliciously at him. "Prepare to meet the justice of the God-Emperor, _heretic_," an inhumanly deep voice growled.

Barty whimpered, coming very close to wetting himself as he stared up at this avatar of doom, wide-eyed and terrified beyond reason, a small part of his mind gibbering and screaming and thrashing, begging him to run and run and hide, but he couldn't move, frozen as he was to the spot in fear. The massive hand was clamped so tightly the bones of his face creaked under the pressure...and those eyes, those terrible eyes drawing him in...he couldn't look away...an awful stabbing pain began behind his temples as if something was trying to hack its way out of his skull, his vision rapidly greying around the edges until all he could see were those awful eyes...until even that blurred and smeared...and then he knew no more...

oOo

Snape watched in horrified fascination as this fake Moody began to spasm, blood beginning to leak from his eyes, ears and nose. He had a little feeling that the over-powered...legilimency, he supposed, Carrow had just performed had just...well...he looked on, revolted as Carrow wiped the froth from the man's mouth that had spilled onto his hand on the wall leaving a rather red streak...

"He's a cabbage now, isn't he?" Snape commented drily as Carrow let the vaguely twitching body slump to the floor. Carrow gave him a flat stare before considering the crumpled body.

"Hmm, servitor material possibly," he suggested dismissively, his voice rumbling softly around the room. "I need your assistance now, Severus." He crouched down by the body, carefully searching through the man's pockets, pulling out that hip-flask. With a squeak of the lid, and a cautious sniff, he handed it to Snape.

"Severus, at the moment the real Alastor Moody is being kept prisoner in his own travel trunk with this...Dark Lord...watching over him. From Barty Crouch junior's memories, I see that he regularly took Moody out for exercise in his office. I need you to disguise yourself as Moody in order to retrieve the real one...please."

Snape stared at him unheedingly. "Barty Crouch Junior?" he exclaimed. "But he was supposed to have died in Azkaban years ago!"

"Apparently not," Carrow gave him what might have been a wry smile, if it hadn't been so vicious.

Gingerly holding the hip-flask, he looked between it and the giant man crouching next to their "victim", those green eyes, so like Lily's, looking at him intently. With a sigh, he opened the hip-flask and took a cautious sniff; huh, too much lace wing, but at least that meant he wouldn't be stuck looking like that cantankerous old man for too long. Sending a little prayer to anyone who might be listening, he took a large mouthful, swallowing the thick bitter liquid down as quickly as he could. The unpleasant twisting, bubbling sensation began almost immediately, his vision quickly becoming decidedly lob-sided, and then tilted. Oh blast, the leg, he thought as the floor rushed up towards him. Large hands gently halted his fall.

"Maybe I should have sat down first," Snape commented in Moody's gruff voice.

oOo

Snape carefully manoeuvred his way down the ladder into the trunk, hoping no one would notice the shaking of his fingers or the cold sweat trickling down his back. Under his arm were a copy of the Quibbler and the evening edition of the Daily Prophet that Barty had apparently been planning to give to the Dark Lord as a distraction, or apology maybe. Carrow had felt the memory wasn't very clear as to Barty Junior's motive, particularly as it seemed to be wrapped up in a healthy dose of fear.

Carrow had tried demonstrating Barty's routine with the Dark Lord. It had been highly amusing, definitely going in his pensive for future views; Carrow's career as a mime artist was over before it really began...thank goodness.

If he didn't get it quite right, then he supposed he could claim distractedness. There was certainly enough going on for it to work. He reached the bottom of the ladder, right next to what Barty Junior had been calling the _Evil Box_ in the privacy of his own mind. A blast of the most spine-chilling dark- Snape wasn't even sure what to call it- hit him without warning. Instinctively, he shied away from the pulsing malevolence of the dreadful thing.

"Oh, do grow a spine!" A familiar hissing voice came from behind him. Snape forced himself into motion; turning, he took in the sight of the Dark Lord for the first time in over a decade. Awkwardly shuffling over, he got a better view of the hideous golem that the Dark Lord was now forced to inhabit...sitting in a high-chair. _Oh, Merlin!_ He bit the inside of his cheek as a bubble of laughter threatened to escape.

"My Lord," he muttered gruffly, placing the Quibbler and evening paper on the tray of the high-chair. It was a very sensible high-chair too, nice solid pine thing, good quality. Beyond it, squashed into the corner was a matching cot, its side down, blankets hunched and messy; Barty had obviously not spared any expense for his Master.

And now for the tricky bit; he limped over to where Moody lay comatose on a thin mattress, half-covered with a thin blanket. He didn't look particularly healthy at all. Barty must have used the Imperius to make him sleep all the time, except people weren't meant to hibernate like that. He checked the man's pulse and temperature; hmm, nothing a few potions and being properly active and aware wouldn't fix. Trying to ignore the constant hissing, muttering, and rustling going on behind him he quietly flicked his wand out and softly muttered "_imperio"_, hoping that his will was more powerful than Barty Crouch Junior's.

For a moment nothing seemed to happen, and then like an itch at the back of his mind he became aware of another presence, muffled and lethargic, lying in front of him looking towards...the sensation was rather disorientating to say the least.

"Get up," he growled at his temporary twin, a headache beginning just behind his right temple. The sooner he got out of this the better. Slowly Moody sat up, obviously stiff and uncomfortable, "now get out of the trunk," he snapped, watching as Moody crawled across to the ladder and began to pull himself up slowly rung by rung. "My Lord," Snape respectfully inclined his head to the Dark Lord who watched balefully as they retreated from the trunk.

"And bring me those books when you're done," the Dark Lord hissed. Snape nearly lost his grip part way up the ladder, looking round he caught the Dark Lord glaring at him resentfully, red eyes aching with...was that _boredom_? "Of course, Master," he muttered before clambering the rest of the way up, closing the trunk with a huge sigh of relief.

oOo

Snape finished the last of his diagnosis charms, stepping back and allowing Moody to button up his shirt with trembling fingers. The old Auror gave him a curt nod, scowling darkly at everything around him, particularly the drooling shell of a man that used to be Barty Crouch Junior. Lurking in the shadows was the menacing form of Carrow, who was watching them cat-like, vivid green eyes unblinking.

"So, what now?" Moody growled. "You've permanently incapacitated Crouch, and removed me." He grimaced, a strange, ugly expression twisted by all the scar tissue. "That...little golem is going to start suspecting something is up soon..." he glared at Carrow expectantly.

Carrow smirked back, his teeth glittering nastily in the dim light. "We have fourteen more minutes. It seems to me we have a perfect opportunity here to delve deeper into this...Dark Lord's plans, to destroy them at the most critical moment. Alastor Moody, your professional pride has been injured; here is an opportunity to salve that wound. Simply take the place of Mr Crouch Junior, and _he_ will take _your _place inside the trunk."

Snape and Moody both stared at the giant man as if he were mad. What he was proposing to pull off, right under the nose of the Dark Lord himself was nothing short of insane, but on the other hand, if it worked...

Snape rolled his eyes as Moody began to grin; typical Gryffindors, always jumping into things without a properly thought out plan...

"You're absolutely barking," Moody said obviously amused, "but you've got a point...this _is_ a golden opportunity." He nodded decisively to himself. "Yes, I'll do it. It's been years since I've done undercover work. Nothing like a nice bit of good clean subterfuge, boy!" He gave Snape a savage grin, before scowling again. "How are we going to keep young Crouch in disguise? He's going to be key to keeping this crazy plan up."

Snape nodded, having given this some thought. "There is an alternate to Polyjuice, Doppelganger Dew. It's not very popular for very good reasons."

"Nasty stuff that is, boy," Moody commented as Carrow watched the conversation in fascination.

"Hmm," Snape agreed, "it's highly addictive and it also causes progressive liver damage, but on the positive side, for us, the effects can last as long as thirty eight hours."

"And you can make it?" Moody questioned dubiously.

"Indeed," Snape nodded curtly, "it uses mostly common ingredients and takes only a few hours to brew...I can have it ready for the morning...in the meantime...Topsy," he called, "retrieve my travelling potions kit if you would please," he asked the small house-elf when she appeared with a pop. The knobbly little creature squeaked wide-eyed and gave a curtsy before popping away again, abruptly reappearing with a small travel chest. "Excellent," Snape gave her a curt nod and quickly started rifling through the contents..."a-hah," he grinned triumphantly at the small crystal vial containing a buttercup yellow liquid.

"Isn't that Feagal's Philter?" Moody asked with narrowed eyes as he adjusted the cuffs of his battered green over-robe. "Possession gets you ten years in Azkaban or a thousand galleon fine, you know."

Snape rolled his eyes as he grabbed the hip-flask of sub-par Polyjuice off the table. "Yes, it certainly is Feagal's Philter, and if we add it to this...rubbish," he sneered, "then it will last through the night. Of course, it will also cause permanent brain damage, but that's not really an issue, is it?" He grinned nastily at Carrow.

Carrow smirked back, completely unruffled. "Excellent. I knew I could rely on your expertise in this matter, Severus."

Snape felt his cheeks heat up. Attempting to cover his embarrassment, he gestured towards the dribbling Barty Crouch. "Shall we get on with this, then?"

Quickly they set to work, dressing Barty in the rags Moody had gladly discarded, Carrow helping them manipulate the dead-weight of the once-man, Snape efficiently dosing Barty with the concoction to complete the change.

They eyed the effects critically, Snape shaking his head with a disgusted sneer. "Utter rubbish," he growled, "I will brew you a far superior concoction...for as long as this..." he waved a hand, "lasts...and a nutrient elixir for _you_ too," he added with narrowed eyes at Moody. "That stay in the trunk did you no good at all."

"Channelling Poppy now, are we?" Moody snarked back.

Snape harrumphed crossly; he was nothing like Poppy Pomfrey _at all_. Of course she was a highly trained professional, but her _bedside manner_, she was over-bearing and fussy in the extreme, _obsessive_ even. He glared nastily at the old Auror as he stabbed his wand at his drooling double. Trust _Moody_ to be able to cast a silent Imperius charm.

With a curt nod, Moody eyed them both grimly before giving them a gleeful little grin. The grin turned to a scowl as the sheer enormity of what they were about to undertake stole over him again, hiding his nerves with irritability. Opening the trunk onto the room compartment, he ordered the disguised remains of Crouch Junior in, before following himself.

Snape found himself holding his breath, anxiously crossing his arms tightly across his chest. Surreptitiously he chanced a look at Carrow, but the large man stood unmoved and seemingly relaxed, watching the trunk unblinking. Sensing the attention, those glacial eyes held his for a moment. "Trust to the God-Emperor," he whispered, barely audible even in this cloyingly heavy silence.

Snape huffed in annoyance; Carrow and his God-Emperor. He always spoke of his deity as if he were a living, breathing being, all part of Carrow's general strangeness.

Suddenly Carrow snapped round, tense and alert, fat blue sparks beginning to play in his slicked back hair. Snape carefully drew his wand; if something was making Carrow jumpy, the odds of it being potentially lethal with extreme prejudice were pretty high. "Is everything all...right?" he asked carefully.

Slowly, the large man relaxed, before turning back to the trunk. "I believe so," he said with a small smile.

Muttering and grumbling came from the trunk, and Moody slowly and painfully pulled himself out, scowling to himself. Carefully closing the lid, and turning the lock, he turned to the others. "It is begun," he solemnly announced.

OOOOOO

A sullen red light built at the centre of the circle, the last remains of the rabbit falling into it with a sickening crunch that set Ron's teeth on edge. Scrabbling away, he couldn't drag his eyes away from the growing rift. "Her...Hermione," he stuttered, full-blown panic clawing at the edges of his mind, "is this supposed to happen?"

"I don't...I don't know," she sounded shocked and frightened, "I don't think so..."

A breeze began to grow, ruffling their hair and tugging at their robes, bringing with it the scent of sulphur and something foul and rotten and utterly corrupt. Hermione's notes fluttered across the floor before disappearing into the circle and into the pulsing maw. Ron, despite his rising panic, was rather impressed by the string of curse-words Hermione let loose with; he didn't know she knew things like that.

The basket bowled across the floor, disappearing into the circle with a splintering crunch, the plain wooden chair used for visiting students skittered across the floor on its spindly legs, quickly joining the basket in a shower of splinters. Hermione, wide-eyed, grabbed hold of a leg of the heavy oak teacher's desk just in time.

And then Ron realised his predicament.

Scrabbling at the floor, he was just too far to grab hold of anything and the wind was so strong now, he was being slowly but surely pulled along the floor to a very grizzly fate indeed.

"Hermione," he pleaded, desperation colouring his voice as he frantically tried to get a hold of something, anything, some infinitesimal crevice on the floor.

"_Ron_," Hermione screamed, "hold on..._bombarda!_"

"Wha..." Ron began, eyes wide at the thought of being hit by _that_. To his sheer amazement, the spell veered towards the circle, slowing in its path before hitting him hard in the stomach. The breath knocked out of him in a huge whoof of air, Ron skittled backwards across the floor, crashing into a cloak-cupboard. Dazedly, he scrabbled for purchase, finally managing to grab a short stout leg. The large and very solid piece of furniture hadn't shifted so much as an inch, though the doors were rattling alarmingly.

"Hermione," Ron wheezed painfully, "_do_ something," he gasped as ancient text-books tumbled off a nearby bookcase flapping wildly as they were pulled across the floor.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," Hermione snapped, "oh shit," she snarled as the desk began to jerk across the floor, her feet getting dangerously close to the circle. A picture containing a very distressed and dizzy portrait of a wizard pin-wheeled past with a scream.

Ron watched, his heart in his mouth as Hermione let the desk carry her closer, a look of grim determination on her face as her feet inched ever closer to the glowing blue perimeter. And then she seemingly lunged forward, deliberately digging her heel through a particular rune set, completely obliterating the salt sigils, breaking the circle completely through.

It was as if the world held its breath...and then it stopped, objects falling to the floor all around them, paintings falling back against the wall with a clatter, a portrait in a particularly fine periwig running away, gibbering to himself. Ron tried to relax his grip on the cupboard leg but his fingers were seemingly locked tight. Painfully prying them off, he turned to check on Hermione, only to find her sitting in a crumpled heap by the teacher's desk, cheeks wet with tears. He crawled across the floor and flung his arms around her. "You okay?" he mumbled, finding to his embarrassment that he was actually crying. A hand hesitantly reached up and patted his back, followed by another as Hermione began to return to reality.

"...Think so," she mumbled. "Just...just...scary...Thanks," she muttered as she pulled away, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks, surveying the damage, "I think...I think we should get out of here before anyone comes to investigate."

Ron nodded taking in the savaged room, books strewn across the floor, paintings and furniture askew and, burnt into the floor, a tentacle pit that seemed to writhe unpleasantly as he looked at it. "At least we don't need to worry about taking anything back with us," he commented feeling slightly hysterical.

Hermione gave him a questioning look.

"All went down the hole, didn't it?" He gave her a crooked grin.

OOOOOO

Moody limped along through the wet grass and odd muddy puddle, marvelling at the odd change-around in his circumstances that had occurred over the last twenty-four hours. It was utterly extraordinary, and further cemented his opinion of Carrow; the man got things done, was a mover and shaker, highly efficient, and the best thing that had happened to the Ministry in _years_. You just had to look at the changes in the DMLE over the last few months. Madam Bones was good, but had been hobbled by Fudge and his ilk, yet now, was increasingly able to do what she should have been doing, chasing after the muck in the Ministry, cleaning house, bringing the corrupt and dirty to book... but he was getting distracted...

...one of the younger members of the DC as they liked to call themselves was hunched over by the path, heavy knapsack abandoned beside him, vomiting bile into the long grass. Moody shook his head, as he stumped over fishing in his pocket for a stomach soother young Snape had given him earlier that morning. Now there was someone he was beginning to suspect he'd misjudged...

The third-year, Bertie...something (blast, he needed to learn their names quickly before anyone noticed) looked up, his face a delicate shade of green. "Here you are, lad," Moody handed the vial over, "drink up, now."

"Thank-you sir," the boy muttered, voice hoarse. Downing the potion in one go, he handed the vial back, before grabbing his knapsack and running after his fellow club members. Moody watched his retreating back in approval; excellent attitude, didn't let physical discomfort get in the way. Now if only all Auror recruits could be like that...

...but he was getting distracted again, wasn't he? Blasted Imperius curse, blasted Crouch sprog, getting him off stride like that. So much for _constant vigilance, _he grumbled to himself, and now he had gone from a prisoner in his own trunk, watched over by the remains of a Dark Lord (and wasn't he going to have nightmares about that, particularly the sippy cup) to impersonating himself with a pensive full of the Crouch sprog's memories, as many as Carrow had been able to retrieve. Looked like he was going to have some very busy evenings looking through that lot...and he had made the unpleasant discovery that that bloody Crouch brat had smashed up his collection of Dark detectors, stupid little... he growled to himself, some of those devices had been priceless, utterly unique and irreplaceable, one had even been a gift from his mentor when he'd been a young wet-behind-the-ears thing, just beginning his career in the DMLE. All destroyed...all gone...that Crouch brat...he ground his teeth in frustration; it wasn't as if he could do anything worse to him than Carrow had already done...

...he limped over to a tree as the Defence Club began exercises, tuck jumps, squats, press-ups...all sorts of things, in the mud. Nearby the Beauxbatons students were watching disbelievingly from the windows of their carriage. Now what would it take to get some of them to join in, he mused...

...and of course there was the enigma of Severus Snape, someone he'd written off as a hardcore Death Eater, especially considering the crowd he'd hung around with. But now, considering Carrow's attitude towards the man, and his close involvement with his rescue, it looked like he was going to have to reassess his opinion of the young Potions Master. He'd initially spotted the imposter, alerted someone competent to the fact and then had been involved in the subsequent action...and Carrow liked and respected him...

A splattering thud caught his attention just as another member of the DC, definitely a Weasley with that red hair sent his sparring partner flying over his hip into the mud. Moody grinned with delight; muggle self-defence, oh this was _wonderful_...

"Nice one, Ron," the mud-caked girl jumped up with a small grin, "want to try that one again?"

"Yeah," Ron replied, "could we do the variation for a kick?"

"Sure," she dropped into a fighting stance then lashing out with a neat kick designed to hit the thigh. Ron neatly caught the leg and, grabbing the neck of her jacket neatly swept her other leg out from under her, resulting in another muddy squelch...

Moody sighed happily; he couldn't wait to actually teach them, they were so_ motivated_, though now he thought about it, compared to his imposter's memories they didn't look quite as cheerful as normal...a bad night maybe. They obviously weren't letting it hold them back...a good attitude he thought to himself, it would get them far.

"Okay everyone," the mud-coated girl shouted, "melee time!"

The rest of the children whooped with delight, grabbing various weapons, holding them ready in anticipation.

"Remember, everyone for themselves!" the girl shouted.

The Defence Club ran at one another, brandishing their weapons, screaming war-cries as they attacked, dodged and blocked, a heaving violent scrum quickly forming, the mud churning up around their feet. Moody was practically bouncing on the spot, this was just...he had to get involved in this. Cackling to himself, he pulled out his wand; as long as he kept to stinging hexes, say, he should be all right. He strode into the fight sending spells left and right, dodging as best he could the physical attacks, the odd surprised child giving him a huge grin before attacking with swords, axes, whatever they'd managed to get their hands on, one young girl running past screaming and frothing at the mouth, her eyes rolling wildly as she brandished a short sword.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he roared.

oOo

Ron pulled his toast apart, listlessly picking at it, his appetite non-existent for once. His sleep had been plagued with nightmares, the sensation of being dragged across the floor, Hermione not being quick enough...and the absolute worse, Hermione losing her grip and him having to watch helplessly as she was pulled to her doom. Dean and then Seamus had both woken him during the night with increasing prejudice, and so in the end he'd dragged his coverlet and a pillow down to the common room and settled down on one of the sofas by the fire. It certainly beat increasingly cold blasts of water.

He'd been shaken out of his doze by a Hermione who looked no better than he felt. How they'd managed to get through the morning workout he'd no idea...and now they were at breakfast with a busy day of classes ahead, Double Ancient Runes first thing, oh joy!

He grimaced, turning to Hermione; maybe he could persuade her to go over that last variation of _Ingwaz_ (or was that _Ingez_) with him, he was always getting them mixed up. Hermione sat there, head down, staring into her porridge, idly shifting the rapidly cooling and increasingly inedible looking goop around the bowl. She looked awful, Ron noted with concern.

"Hermione," he gently murmured, bumping shoulders with her softly. Jerking, she snapped round eyes unseeing, hands clenching around invisible weapons. Ron held his hands up, trying to look as harmless as possible. "You all right?" he asked in concern. Hermione stared at him, before returning to her mutilated porridge with a heavy sigh. "Yes...no...no, I'm not...I spent so long working on all that...stuff," her eyes darted around, checking the nearby students, "but it went so very _wrong_. You could've been _killed_..." she gave the porridge a vicious stab with her spoon, "I'd have never forgiven myself if that had happened...it's just...it was so much _work,_ and it wasn't enough. Where do I go from here? What do I try next?" She gazed at the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

Ron had a horrible suspicion she was trying not to cry. Thinking hard, he scrambled for possible answers. "Erm, maybe...do we know exactly _where_ he died, because...well Percy told me he died in the err, staff-room. And his office seems like a very general location really...," he trailed off, his cheeks flushing pink as Hermione stared at him intently.

"That's true," she said slowly, "I was just assuming his office would be the most resonate location for him...but you know what rumours are like around this place, he could have just as easily died in his sleep...we need to research this," she said firmly, a fanatical gleam returning to her eyes, much to Ron's relief.

"You know what this means," Ron said, with a grin at Hermione's puzzled expression, "we need to look in _Hogwarts: a History_ of course."

He missed Hermione's amused eye-roll completely. "Oh, hey, Ron," he looked over his shoulder to find their Slytherin friend standing there with a plate of toast and sausages, "want to go over _Ingwas_? It's giving me a headache."

Ron grinned in relief and shuffled closer to Hermione to make room for him, "yeah, I couldn't get my head around whether it's about balance or erm...diplomacy...or maybe it was one of those linking thingies...you know..."

Greg nodded thoughtfully. "That's what's tripping me up too, do I take it for its meaning or is it just like an extra bit? That translation was really tricky," he grumbled thoughtfully as he carefully constructed his sausage butty. "Any ketchup anywhere?" he asked.

Hermione summoned the one and only bottle on the table over. "Honestly, you two," she sighed handing the bottle over, "_Ingwas_ is a bridging sound, which is why it represents harmony and balance...as well as the old Northern god Ing of course...but he might have been a founding father of a nation. The records are rather confused."

Ron pulled out his homework; maybe if he had a last little look...

With a rustle the post-owls arrived, swooping down and depositing their loads in front of their recipients. When a very familiar Snowy Owl landed in front of Hermione, he gave her a nudge. "Hermione, it's Hedwig. Looks like she's got something for you." He eyed the suspiciously book shaped parcel warily, Hermione's name written on it in a small and very precise gothic hand. Anything from Carrow was bound to be interesting, exciting even; it was just that Carrow didn't seem to perceive any sort of upper limit to exciting.

Carefully chopping up a sausage, Ron offered Hedwig a piece while Hermione retrieved her parcel. "I wonder what this could be," she muttered puzzled, as she un-wrapped it. Inside was a black leather-bound book, nice and thick, but lacking any indication of a title or author. Ron and Hermione exchanged looks. Carefully using the tip of her wand, she opened the cover to find a note penned in the same neat hand; _"To further your studies."_

Ron leaned over, his breakfast forgotten as Hermione began to leaf through the book. "His handwriting's improved loads, hasn't it," he commented distractedly as he took in a section dealing with the entrapment of minor demons, complete with musings and amusing anecdotes. Hermione snorted with laughter as she browsed through her new book.

"He's written this for me...I think," she turned to Ron, "he knew...but he must have been the other side of the Castle from us...the Great Hall..." she shook her head, "the things he knows...Professor Carrow is just incredible," she breathed, "oh...well, blast."

Ron leaned closer to look at a detailed diagram of a runic seal he could only begin to guess the purpose of. "If I'd known _that_," Hermione continued, beginning to look really upset, "I'd have done everything differently. Look," she pointed, "I shouldn't have used _Raido_ there at all...I made a gateway rather than doing a banishing," she looked distraught for a moment, "at least our next attempt should be more successful."

Ron gave a strained grin. Oh thrills. He was _so_ looking forward to playing with magic so dark Mum would ground him for the rest of his natural life (and beyond if she could) if she ever found out. Maybe they would accidentally summon one of these lesser daemons Carrow described, they sounded dangerous enough it would be just his luck...

"_Miss Granger, Mr Weasley!_" The horrifyingly familiar voice of their Head of House slammed through their concentration. "An absolutely, _utterly,_ inappropriate book to give a child! I will be having that," she snarled snatching Carrow's labour-of-love away from a stunned Hermione. "What was he thinking?! When I get my hands on that giant _idiot_..."

"But, Professor..." Hermione tried to protest. Professor McGonagall glared down at them, her lips dangerously thin; instinctively, the pair cringed back, hunching down in their robes. "I will be confiscating this...book for the time being, and when I see Mr Carrow next, I will be telling him exactly what I think of people who give children books on Black Magic. Of all the ridiculous things..." She stormed off to the Head Table, muttering dangerously.

Ron and Hermione watched her go bewildered and shocked. Had they been found out? What were they going to do now?

"Guys," Greg said as he constructed his second sausage buttie. Ron turned to him, dazed.

"If you need any help I can always owl my mum and see if she can advise, or look in the family library, for that sort of thing..." he shrugged, "I'm sure she'll be okay with it if I tell her it's for a school project."

Hermione and Ron blinked in surprise. "Wow, thanks Greg," Hermione gave him a smile, "that'd be absolutely brilliant, do you kn..."

"ALASTOR MOODY," the thunderous bellow rung around the Great Hall, students turning to stare at the source in astonishment. Madam Pomfrey strode towards the High Table, the air around her crackling with her barely contained rage. "YOU UTTER FOOL, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE SUPERVISING, NOT JOINING IN!"

Ron looked towards the High Table with a smirk. Professor Moody was sitting next to an extremely amused Professor Dumbledore, seemingly trying to hunch down below the table, a guilty hunted look on the scarred remains of his face. "Poppy, I can expl..." he began.

"DON'T POPPY ME!" the outraged Healer yelled back.

OOOOOO

He supposed he deserved it, the ground rushing up and slamming the air out of him with a painful whoosh, his practice sword landing next to him with a clatter. Edward poked him with a foot. "Talk about wool-gathering, Timmy, you can't have your head in the clouds when you're training with us."

All he could do was nod, he was so winded, sprawled on the floor of the Training Hall, the vampires gazing down at him with sad disapproval, shaking their heads.

"Come on, let's sit out for a moment," Wulfric hauled him to his feet, supporting him over to a bench. "You guys carry on," the werewolf threw over his shoulder with a cheerful grin, "I'll look after the daydreamer."

A few snorts of laughter and the clashing of blades and blurs of motion began again as the morning extreme fencing practice resumed.

"So penny for your thoughts," Wulfric asked as Timothy attempted to gulp down some water, trying to get his breathing under some sort of control.

"Carrow," he finally said, "he's up to something."

Wulfric gave him a funny look. "Are you serious? That's what's bothering you so much?" He shook his head in amusement. "Carrow is _always _up to something. I think he's incapable of not being hip-deep in some scheme or another."

Tim growled impatiently. "I know that," he snapped, "no...Halloween at Hogwarts, there was something going on. He disappeared for nearly an hour with Severus, and when they reappeared Severus had that really blank look he gets when he's hiding something."

"Really?" Wulfric frowned as he watched Annie and Caroline wrestle on the floor their swords forgotten. "I didn't notice, I must admit, that Merlin blasted walking talking killing...box was causing so much trouble...I mean, I didn't know painted creatures could actually be disembowelled...it was _disgusting, _especially since they were obviously still...you know...alive," he shrugged with a grimace, "how can such a big guy just disappear like that, he must be using magic or something." He shook his head. "Anyway, I bet he and Sev just went and had a chat somewhere quieter. Even if it does turn out to be something big, it's doubtful even you would have been able to stop him, so why stress about it? Anyway, feeling better?"

Timothy nodded grabbing his practices sword. "Re-match?" he asked.

As they took their places Timothy tried to push his worries to the back of his mind, Wulfric was right in a way. When Carrow decided to do something, he was unstoppable. So why worry about it? He sighed heavily; he'd find out eventually one way or the other. And so he took his place opposite Wulfric, facing off, sizing the werewolf up as they slowly circled around one another, looking for an opening...with a quick feint he attacked, slashing at Wulfric's sword arm then neck before slipping inside his guard with an attack that would have killed if they had been fighting with live-blades. Wulfric reeled back barely parrying the attacks, a huge grin on his face. "So much better," he crowed, "see what you can do when you're not obsessing about the lump's every move and the state of his socks..."

Timothy growled and lunged, pelting the laughing werewolf with a series of devastating blows, the fighting now in earnest as they battled for the upper-hand, Wulfric slowly being beaten back by Timothy's superior skill, the slighter man not giving Wulfric the opportunity to bring his superior strength and size to bear...until a shriek broke the their concentration, as a wrecking ball of vampire ploughed into them, knocking them flying like skittles, Timothy yelping as he landed awkwardly.

"I am so sorry," Caroline ran over, "we just got a little carried away. Are you two all right?" she asked the two prone men in concern as they untangled themselves from Annie.

"What about me?" Annie protested, "I could have been severely injured for all you know," she huffed.

"Oh, but my dear Annie," Caroline said as she helped her friend up, "you're made of much sterner stuff than they are." She gave the other vampire a hug.

Wulfric shook his head as he dusted himself off. "Honestly," he muttered, "look at that." He poked at a tear in the sleeve of his khaki shirt. "That's the second one this week," he shook his head sadly.

Timothy snorted with laughter as he grabbed his practice sword and went to stand up, only to yelp as he put weight on his right hand, collapsing back onto his bottom, clutching the injured appendage to his chest. "Oh..._blast it_," he snarled.

"You all right?" Wulfric asked in concern

Timothy winced as he cautiously felt the injury. "Not sure, think I might have sprained something...quite badly actually." He cautiously clambered to his feet, Wulfric hustling him over to a bench.

Annie reappeared, a very grumpy Healer Slaughter stamping along behind, his broad shoulders hunched with displeasure, a wooden carry-case tucked under an arm. He glared around the training hall. "What have you idiots been doing now," he snarled, "I've got a family with two young children with Screaming Scrofula who urgently need my help. Really pick your moments, don't you?" he grumbled as he pulled out his wand and stared casting diagnostic charms on Timothy's injured arm. "Oh, just typical," he snapped, "a broken wrist. Well, at least this will keep you out of trouble for a few days. Drink this," he snarled, thrusting a suspicious looking vial under Timothy's nose.

Gulping it down his worst fears were confirmed; skelegrow, he shuddered at the foul taste, gratefully accepting the mug of water Wulfric handed him, only wincing slightly as Healer Slaughter bandaged what felt like most of his right arm slightly rougher than he might otherwise have done. A tap of his wand turned the bandages rigid and Timothy sighed in relief; that felt much better. And then Healer Slaughter stuffed his arm into a sling. "I can't wear this all day," Timothy began to object, only to come to a stuttering halt as Healer Slaughter glared nastily at him.

"Right, that should do it. Don't get the bandages wet and don't use drying charms on them either, because _I'll know_, and don't hit anything with one of those stupid swords either," he glared at Annie and Caroline, "particularly a vampire," he snarled, his nose inches from Timothy's. "Personally I think your wrist should be allowed to heal the muggle way," he snapped as he tidied his travel case, closing it with an ominous thunk, "it might be slow, but it's effective and it would keep you out of trouble for longer, make you appreciate your body and everything it does for you more. Right, I'll be back in two days to have another look at it...in the meantime, stay out of trouble." Healer Slaughter turned on his heel, and stormed off, muttering darkly to himself about idiots who deliberately injured themselves.

Timothy sighed heavily; this really couldn't have happened at a worse time. "Looks like scouring charms for me today," he groaned.

Wulfric gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat.

oOo

Growling in frustration, Timothy attempted to butter his toast one-handed, only to have the wretched thing slide around on the plate, and he couldn't use a sticking charm because it made the food taste inedible afterwards. The morning really was not getting off to a good start; he'd been deprived of a nice hot shower, dressing had been awkward to say the least, and now he was stuck wearing a sling, having to negotiate the world one-handed. At least he'd been able to turn the blasted thing black so it didn't look quite so ridiculous with his dolman. A small comfort when he was failing to feed himself.

"Want a hand?" Wulfric offered from the other side of the table where he was munching on a large bowl of muesli.

Timothy gave him a grimacing smile, "I'm fine really, I jus..."

"I'll help you Uncle Tim," a loud and childish voice announced as small fingers prized the butter knife from his grip, "what do you want on it...raspberry jam, marmalade, marmite...erm, sardines?" Felix asked.

"Definitely no sardines Felix," Timothy warned, "particularly _not_ with marmalade."

"Aww," the boy whined, ears drooping, tail swishing in disappointment.

"Just raspberry jam...please," Timothy smiled pleadingly.

"Oh, okay," Felix gave in, "but that's no fun you know," he grumbled as he carefully spread jam, "there. Here's your boring toast," he grinned cheekily.

Timothy chuckled and ruffled the lad's fluffy ears, "thank-you very much for my boring toast. Feel free to experiment with your own."

Felix gurgled with laughter as he scampered round the table back to his place and started to fiddle with something papery under the table every so often as he ate his breakfast, which appeared to be, Timothy leaned forward eyeing the revolting looking heap with a sigh, most of the jar of marmalade heaped on top of sardines on top of a very sorry looking piece of toast. And what precisely was he fiddling around with on his lap? It seemed to involve felt-tip pens and much rustling of paper..."Felix, are you doing your homework?" Timothy asked, trying not to laugh at the boy's sudden wide-eyed look of complete innocence. "I'm taking it that this particular item is due in today."

Felix's expression morphed into a guilty smile as he furtively looked between the two men.

"At least do it on the table," Wulfric said with a shake of his head, "how can you draw a picture properly without a flat support. What's it of anyway?"

"Artemis," Felix muttered distractedly, "we've got to draw our pets and write a bit about them for a...class presentation."

"And you've done the written portion for this, I take it," Timothy asked with a frown.

"Ermm..." Felix could only respond slumping down in his chair.

Wulfric shook his head in exasperation while Timothy's frown deepened, "you've had how long to do this?"

"Err..." Felix slumped down even further, "erm, four days?" he said.

Timothy sighed in exasperation. "Honestly Felix, you're intelligent and talented and have so much to offer, but when you do things like this, you really let yourself down. You're not showing your abilities off to best advantage...and what do you think Mr Carrow will say when he finds out, because find out he will."

Felix gulped, nodding his head mournfully. Slowly, he plonked his half-finished and rather rumpled drawing on the breakfast table and set to work.

Timothy and Wulfric shared a look over the breakfast table, Timothy shaking his head sadly; he had vague recollections of doing something very similar when he was at school and intensely regretting it too, now if he could just persuade Felix...

The sound of approaching voices drifted through into the Breakfast Room as Artemis prowled in, happily huffing in greeting as she walked round the table her nose now conveniently at tabletop height. Timothy carefully pushed the jar of raspberry jam away from the edge before she could get too curious.

"Hello Artemis," Wulfric grinned at her as he gently rubbed her neck as she sauntered past to investigate the one person who wasn't taking any notice of her at all. Working hard on his picture, Felix was completely unaware as Artemis came up beside him, and with a delicate snort reached out and grabbed the corner of the paper the hung invitingly off the edge of the table yanking it away from her playmate. "Artemis!" Felix shrieked grabbing for the other end of his picture, "give it back, I need it!" But Artemis just gave a playful tug nearly pulling Felix from his chair, the paper on the other hand parted with a very final tearing sound.

"Oh no," Felix wailed as a gleeful Artemis bounded out of the room nearly knocking a rather shaken man in a high-vis vest over, "Artemis, come back!" Felix yelled as he gave chase, the sorry remains of his homework clutched in one hand.

"Oh great," Wulfric sighed, "think I'd better split that up before it gets out of hand," he hurried from the room dodging round the pale faced and rather bewildered man. Timothy grimaced as he watched him go. Wonderful, that was the morning completely stuffed up, because if Wulfric didn't manage to round Felix up in the next twenty minutes, the lad was going to have lateness piled on top of his homework woes.

Shaking his head he turned back to his breakfast...except the man was still standing in the doorway...staring. Timothy eyed him back, high-vis vest, sensible shoes, hard-hat skew-whiff, gold-rimmed glasses, clipboard clutched tightly to his chest as if it were a life-line, and a slightly hysterical expression. This must be one of the people from English Heritage Carrow was supposed to be meeting this morning. They'd arrived early and decided to get stuck straight in...something about the cellar under the Norman keep...so much to see you know...

Had Carrow managed to upset them somehow, (not beyond the realms of possibility) and this member of the team had wondered off in his distress; the Breakfast Room was fairly close after all, which was probably a good thing.

He worked his way back round the table. "Are you all right sir? I'm Mr Carrow's secretary...Timothy Faulks..." he held out his hand to shake but the man just stared at it. "Sorry," Timothy finally said, "unfortunately I've injured my right wrist and I've got to keep it strapped up for a few days, Doctor's orders you understand...would you like a cup of tea...or coffee?"

The man looked him up and down, taking in the heavy boots with their engrave steel toes, the blue and bronze sash and gold-braid adorned dolman, the roughly slicked back hair and side-burns, before slowly nodding and allowing Timothy to guide him over to a spare chair at the table. At least he'd managed to change the sling to black, Timothy thought to himself, certainly stopped him from looking quite so ridiculous.

"Ma...Macintosh..." the man stuttered, "Charles Rennie Macintosh!"

Timothy gave him an odd look. "Oh, the table and chairs...yes, I do believe they are...one of Charlus Potter's early additions to his collection," he said as poured the man a cup of tea, "would you like some milk?"

The man nodded mutely staring around the garish busyness of the Breakfast Room in a daze, taking in Felix's abandoned felt-tips on the table with mild horror.

"You haven't introduced yourself you know," Timothy commented mildly after a few moments of silence. The man jerked in his seat.

"I...I didn't? Bernard...Bernard McGuire...I...er...I'm with English Heritage..." his gaze drifted away back to the latest addition to the room, a rather ornate curio cabinet.

Timothy nodded. "It's got a lens on the side so you can look in when the doors are shut. It's rather like a giant kaleidoscope," he gave the man a smile, "would you like to see?"

Bernard gave a jerky nod, and made his way round the table, stumbling on the edge of a khelim as he went.

"Sir," a voice came from the doorway and Timothy turned.

"Ah, Mr Weasley, this morning's reports, I take it?"

"Indeed, sir," the young man bustled in, the very image of efficiency in his smart grey suit robes, "these are the reports for the board meeting, next week, including the latest rejection for Mr. Carrow's designs for the Expo," they both chuckled at this, "this one is for," Percy continued, and then paused, "...is the...gentleman all right?" he asked with concern.

Timothy turned to find Bernard looking appealingly at him, "The err...is something in the way?" he asked, pointing at the curio cupboard.

Timothy shook his head in annoyance. "He's gone and stuffed it full of junk hasn't he," he muttered, pulling open the cupboard doors with a frown. Actually, it wasn't too bad, the assortment of bric-a-brack, mainly enamelled boxes, fossils and other ornaments, were quite nicely spaced on the shelves against the background of carefully angled and faceted mirrors, but right where the lens would peer into the interior of the cabinet was a particularly angular and old looking box...except...oh...was this a reliquary? It certainly looked like something he'd seen in a museum once on a school trip when he'd been about eight. It was shaped rather like a child's rendering of a house with its four sides and apex roof, each surface a panel of geometric patterns enamelled in jewel like colours. Timothy believed they would be called carpet patterns if they were presented in a book, he'd been reading up on these things when he'd had the opportunity. Surrounding the enamelled panels were borders of interlace, fantastic biting beasts, and on the lid an inscription in rather abbreviated Latin. It was rather beautiful, and also rather heavy.

"Mr Weasley, if you would move that for me..." Timothy pointed to the obstruction. Percy carefully manoeuvred the surprisingly heavy object on top of the cabinet, Bernard wincing all the while...until he got a look at the object...

"Anglo-Saxon," he whispered looking as if he were about to faint, "too much...too much..." he staggered to the nearest chair slumping down on to it with a sob, "...mosaics...wall paintings..."

Timothy and Percy watched him with concern, "I suppose the house can be rather overwhelming at first," Timothy tried to reassure him, "but you will get used to it."

Bernard gave him a wild look. "Do you realise what you've got here?" he shrieked. "It's _unique_! You don't just get _used_ to it!"

"I understand you're here to inspect the main cellar," Timothy frowned in growing annoyance. "What happened? Did Carrow..."

"Mr Carrow didn't do anything...particularly," Bernard snapped, "we went through the Great Hall and into the cellar, and the more we looked around at the stone work and the construction, the more clear it became that at least part of the cellar must be part of a Roman building...important too...there were traces of plaster, but I suppose the ground level rose and..." he shook himself, "anyway, the archaeologists very carefully lifted one of the paviers, and...and that's when we found the mosaic..." he ground to a halt, "this house is just...Tudor and Norman...and these wall paintings," he jabbed a finger at the bright geometric patterns that adorned the Breakfast Room, "...and now Roman mosaics...and the contents...and all so beautifully preserved too...it's incredible. I've never seen anything like it and I've been working for English Heritage for twenty years nearly..." he stared up at them desperate for them to understand, "and now," he gestured at the reliquary, "Anglo-Saxon, though I doubt it started its life here."

"Erm, no," Percy agreed, "we've been going through the account for some months now, and I do believe that that is an item bought by one of the Potters in about erm...1538..."

"During the Dissolution of the Monasteries," Bernard interrupted.

"I believe so, obviously the tendency to hoard high quality knick-knacks runs deep if the Tudor Potters were doing it too," Timothy answered seeing Percy's confusion; obviously, his general history could use some work. Then a thought struck him. "Wasn't Mr Carrow's Great Great Grandmother interred in such an item when they cleared out the ossiary at the church? I'm certain I've seen a note about it in one of the diaries somewhere."

"An ancestor?" an inhumanly deep voice growled loudly behind them. "Are you sure?"

Bernard squeaked and leapt back into the wall, while Percy suddenly found himself juggling his folder, his heart racing. Timothy composed himself and turned. "Mr Carrow, we believe that the reliquary may contain the mortal remains of your Great Great Grandmother Esmeralda. I can try and find the record for it again, if you like."

Carrow stared down at him for a moment his expression unreadable, and then he reached out and gently picked up the reliquary. "Then it must be interred in the Chapel at once. You should have informed me sooner," he accused scowling at them fiercely. With a swirl of his leather robes, he turned, and was gone.

"What...wait...he can't just..." Bernard stammered, frantically pushing past them to the door, intent on following Carrow.

Timothy grabbed him just in time. "You don't need to worry about Mr Carrow harming it in anyway. He is merely going to place it within the family Chapel, that's all," he tried to smile reassuringly.

"Chapel...what chapel?" Bernard asked, looking quite frantic. "I've not seen a chapel anywhere."

OOOOOO

It seemed he was exceptionally popular today; the God-Emperor shook his head in exasperation, as he carefully removed the fat envelope from the rather shy barn owl, who gratefully retreated to perch beside the impressive bulk of Hedwig. He'd already had the weekly doorstop Carrow called a report on the doings of the British Magical Government, and of course some of his own plans for world domination. But from the looks of this, he turned the thick, heavy manila envelope over, this was probably some sort of paper from Aquila Industries R&amp;D department, and they'd included a video tape too. Brilliant, it would be a welcome relief from Carrow's horror, which unfortunately he couldn't get away with not reading. The workings of his...sort of grandchild's mind were so labyrinthine he dare not ignore his activities in case any of his scheming reared up and bit him on the bottom as it were. He grumbled to himself as he settled down to read something enjoyable for once.

Frank and his team had actually built the shuttle...and from the looks of this, it had passed all the tests they'd been able to throw at it with flying colours; he eyed the charts of figures with an appreciative eye...but they were having trouble getting clearance from the Aviation Authorities to proceed with test-flights...and _dammit,_ it was ugly, like an unholy mating of a shoebox and a small child's lego model of an airplane, if he was being kind...

The blossoming of a familiar aura caught his attention several seconds before Fawkes the phoenix made his usual spectacular arrival, singing fit to burst. Oh wonderful, he'd already got two owls sleeping off defrosted chicks in his office; at this rate he was going to need a bigger perch.

"Come and sit here a moment," the God-Emperor said in exasperation as he tried to persuade the over-excited phoenix to at least stay still for a few seconds so he could retrieve his post, "honestly, has someone being feeding you sweets or something?" he asked.

Fawkes gave a cheeky chirp, and finally landed on his desk just out of reach, depositing the envelope addressed in purple ink there, before taking off again. Wonderful, so now he was going to get an account from the receiving end of Carrow's antics. Would it be as upset and stressed as usual he mused, which of course meant that the long suffering Supreme Mugwump had just caught on to Carrow's latest scheme.

The God-Emperor sat back in his chair with a sigh, Fawkes quickly settling on his lap. Albus Dumbledore was trying to get a bill through to widen the pool of people who could inherit seats on the Wizengamot. The God-Emperor could understand why; the past century had not been kind to the magical population of the British Isles, with previously prosperous families all but dying out, leaving their political seats vacant and the Wizengamot limping along, hobbled by its losses. So widening the pool of possible candidates to inherit could potentially enrich the Wizengamot with an influx of new blood, new ideas, making it more representative of the people it was there to govern. True, it had a down-side in that not everyone would cope with suddenly having such responsibilities thrust upon them, but then that was always a problem with inherited roles, he knew it better than anyone.

Carrow had of course written about this bill, at great length, in his weekly report. He seemed quite positive about it, deeming it an excellent strategy to returning the Wizengamot to a fully functioning parliament. But he was also concerned that if people like Dumbledore saw him openly supporting it then they would only become suspicious, reluctant even, and the "Right of Inheritance" Bill might falter in its path through the Wizengamot, falling at the last hurdle, and so now he was playing a complicated game of resistance to ensure his political aims.

Personally, the God-Emperor would like to bash their silly heads together. He absolutely hated political games, always had, always would. True, he could make a good politician if he wanted to, he'd even dabbled a little when he was younger and more naive, and hadn't _that_ ended in tears, he sighed heavily to himself, smiling sadly down at Fawkes's comforting chirp.

He was best working in the shadows, directing, hinting, coaxing, giving tiny pushes in the right direction, it was where he did his best work...and had the most fun...and his, he wasn't sure what to call it, but his sense of the future had suggested he had centuries of such tinkering to look forward to, until a great big shadow of...nothing he hadn't been able to see beyond no matter what he tried, but that was millennia into the future, and surely things would become clearer with time...

...but now, Carrow had appeared, his sort-of-grandson from a distant and hellish future, upturned the proverbial apple cart and gleefully jumped up and down on the wreckage, and as a result everything, _everything_, was in a state of uncertainty, leaving him (hopefully temporarily) blind to the possible paths of the future. Was this how normal people felt? Truly, he marvelled at their bravery and courage as they faced each day uncertain as to the possibilities that lay before them.

Things were slowly beginning to settle but in patterns and way he as yet could make no sense of. Time, he needed time, and in the meantime he had to deal with Carrow before the blasted man managed to do something truly catastrophic in a fit of enthusiasm.

Trilling and tugging at his fingers pulled him from his increasingly morose thoughts. He looked down to find the large bird looking up at him in concern. He couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, Fawkes," he murmured as he gently massaged the back of the phoenix's skull. Fawkes crooned happily, closing his eyes and relaxing into the attention. "Too much up in the air and... unknowable. It's got me a little on edge, that's all," the God-Emperor explained with a sad smile.

An abrupt knock on the door was the only warning he got, as the office gossip strolled in uninvited, her arms full of folders. "Oh, there you are. I was just bringing you the results from..." She froze as she took stock of the office. "Er, Jon, are you starting a menagerie in here, because I don't think the office manager..."

"Aviary," the God-Emperor said with a sigh, "they're birds, so it would be an aviary."

OOOOOO

All was quiet in the camp, the tents mainly dark, only the night shift awake, watching, as always, the gates of Aquila Industries, manning the placards and keeping the bonfire going. Yet, over the last few weeks, they had begun to have a reason to be wary. Strange things had started happening in the dead of night, strange and inexplicable things that had even the most hardened of anti-war protestors scratching their heads. It had started quite innocently, with the gleaming eyes of a large predator appearing in the shadows, accompanied by occasional soft growls and the sounds of stealthy movement, as something large moved around them. It had been alarming, but those on guard had quickly dismissed it as their minds playing tricks, or possibly some elaborate attempt by the minions of Aquila Industries to intimidate them into leaving.

Either way, it wasn't going to work.

But then, only a few mornings ago, Pongo had been on his way for his early morning commune with the composting toilet, when he had actually fallen down into the toilet pit itself. Which was odd, because the toilet hut was exactly where they had erected it, several months previously. Pongo, now truly living up to his nickname, had managed to climb out, shaken but otherwise unhurt, and had spent several grizzly days decontaminating himself. Even now though, you could tell when he was around.

But the fact remained, the toilet hut was exactly where they had originally placed it, completely undisturbed, which meant _someone_ had moved the entire toilet pit, contents and all, six feet forward.

Badger glared into the darkness from where he crouched a little way from the bonfire, partially hidden by a shrubby tree; less danger of being spotted, unlike the other idiots on watch, their chatter drifting over to him from where they sat on plastic chairs, silhouetted by the nearby fire.

oOo

Badger yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he extricated himself from his sleeping bag. Last night had been long and dull in a nerve wracking way, every snapping twig or inexplicable rustle setting his nerves on edge, not helped by the idiots by the fire and their loud chatter; somehow it made the other night sounds even more alarming.

He crawled out of the tent on auto-pilot; if he was quick, he'd be able to get to the solar shower before the others, actual hot water, well, lukewarm... stretching hard in the sunshine he took a step forward, and promptly fell over his wellies. Groaning, he peeled himself off the ground, pulling leaves out of his dreads. He could have sworn he'd left his wellies on the other side of the opening...and Margo's tent was in the wrong...place...he slowly looked round, suddenly very wide awake. Someone had come in and tampered with the entire camp; it was subtle and hard to spot but the more he walked around... he stood back from the cooking area, his breathing starting to become erratic and panicked. Someone had _mirror-imaged_ the _entire_ camp. He sat down with a thump, all thoughts of showering clean forgotten as the terrifying implications of such an act washed over him. Somebody, or more likely multiple somebodies, had come into the camp unnoticed and managed to alter the entire thing _without anyone noticing_.

"Aye up, Badger," a funny smell drifted up behind him, "you alright, mate?" Pongo asked, his scrawny face scrunched up in concern.

"The camp," Badger said dazedly, "it's all wrong, just totally wrong...someone's changed it all around..."

"Eh?" Pongo looked down at him puzzled, "think you've smoked a funny mushroom there, duc," he said with a reassuring grin, turning to go back to his tent, inelegantly scratching his bottom. Badger stared unseeingly at the strangely familiar-unfamiliar camp; in the distance there was a distinct twang as of someone tripping over a guy-rope. Pongo's voice drifted over; "Oo put that there?"

Badger rolled his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

**Author's Note**

So finally, here it is...Chapter 6, fraught with the trials and tribulations of real-life. I haven't quite had to wrestle anacondas and wade across crocodile infested waters but frankly sometimes it felt like it...

...The Cold: the comeback...and like a lot of sequels it lacks (yes, an on-going problem :-( ) the punchy gutsiness of the first one...still been driving me up the wall though, not helped by a distinct lack of heating at work.

...the hilarious mismatch of my and Jacobus-Minorus's work shedules. It's made the beta stage a little interesting.

...and some really random research, like what do marmosets eat? Apparently mainly tree resin and fruit but frankly, given the opportunity, anything they can get their little paws on that isn't nailed down.

Well anyway, thank-you for all your wonderful reviews and your continued support. I hope you all enjoy it :-)

* * *

**Chapter 6**

He drew the glory that was his motorbike to a neat halt, his temper simmering nicely. The local Arbites...law enforcers...whatever they were, had stopped him, not once, but _twice_, each time asking for his licence and insurance as well as a range of other completely identical questions, mainly revolving around why he transporting a tiger in a trailer. Carrow snarled to himself, oblivious to the small child in the car next to him, who had begun to cry. It was obvious why he transporting Artemis in her custom conveyance. Did they not have pets, beloved creatures that they cared for, like a blood-member of their own families? The Arbites had backed off a little after that, overwhelmed no doubt by his flawless logic, but it had done little to improve his mood.

Normally he welcomed the challenges the God-Emperor sent his way, but this was ridiculous, he thought as he undid the door to Artemis's trailer, allowing her to scramble down and stretch her legs. She seemed quite cheerful despite the terrible journey, letting a couple of wide-eyed juvies pat her, their adult supervisor standing nearby, clutching at her chest and making strange noises. Did the woman require a psych evaluation, or was she merely overcome at the sight of Artemis's beauty? Frankly, she seemed quite unstable, and in charge of children too...

"Artemis," he called as he strode across the parking area for ground-cars to what looked like the actual entrance to the menagerie itself. The familiar scramble of claws came behind him, followed by her pouncing playfully on to his back. Chuckling to himself, he quickly dislodged her, ruffling her ears and giving her a hug. Maybe this day would improve after all.

His optimism was soon brought to crashing down to Terra Firma as the..._personage_ in the ticket office failed to respond to the simplest of verbal commands.

"I have an appointment," Carrow carefully enunciated to the gibbering idiot in the tiny office carefully holding up the letter in case visual authentication was required...or might even spur the obviously broken waste-of-space into some sort of action. Artemis had stood up on her hind legs in her curiosity, and was now reaching through the small hole at the bottom of the glass partition that separated the lobotomised idiot from more fortunate members of humanity, patting at the leaflets that lay there.

"The appointment," he growled glaring at the pasty little man (maybe he was kept locked up in this little space permanently, no wonder he seemed so poorly socialised), "at 11 O'clock this morning, with Doctor K. Goodwell." He narrowed his eyes at the pathetic scrap of humanity, ignoring Artemis who was now scrabbling and chewing playful at the glass.

"Oh, for Throne's sake," Carrow hissed as the pathetic meat-bag started to sob, "I will go and find this Doctor K. Goodwell myself. Artemis, come," he snapped over his shoulder as he strode off.

oOo

Doctor K Goodwell paced back across the yard. Whoever this Mr Carrow was, he was late. Probably some rich idiot, more money than sense acquiring a tiger that she was highly doubtful he was capable of looking after adequately. Poor thing was probably overweight and overfed, and absolutely stir crazy from being kept in far too small a space, most likely on concrete, because it was "easy to clean". She sighed heavily; which, of course, meant that the poor animal was going to be suffering a host of health issues, including damaged paw pads that would need remedying. Maybe she could get Mr Carrow to see sense and hand his "pet" over to people better qualified to look after it.

The outdoor bell for the phone began to ring as she turned by the fence and began to pace back towards the office, mind preoccupied with the horrors she was potentially about to witness.

"Karen," one of the younger vets called, "security just phoned. Erm...Mr Carrow has arrived with his err...pet...but he went to the main entrance."

"What?" Doctor Karen Goodwell snapped as she stormed towards the office.

"Security is bringing him and the tiger...Artemis...over right now," Brendan shrugged apologetically.

She stood there for a moment utterly flummoxed. They were bringing a caged big-cat _through_ the zoo while it was open. What? That didn't make any sense...

The click of the staff entrance caught their attention as one of the security staff, Steve walked through. Karen and her underling exchanged alarmed looks. Steve was utterly unflappable, nothing upset him, not even when some drunken idiot climbed into the crocodile enclosure one New Year or even when the marmosets had got loose and raided the picnic area, so something truly awful must have happened for him to look this shaken.

"Steve, is everything o..." Karen began. Steve stumbled as a large white tiger scooted past him through the comparatively narrow gateway.

"Oh shit," Brendan began edging back towards the safety of the office, only to watch in bewilderment as the feline, instead of lashing out in distress or anger as might be expected, decided to chase a dead leaf across the yard, her tail lashing from side to side as the forlorn piece of vegetation was thoroughly savaged. Apparently deciding that it was now definitely dead, she began to explore, delicately sniffing at the fence, following it round, examining a bush poking through, sniffing delicately at the tyres of the dedicated veterinary van before giving one an experimental chew, then clambering on to its roof and sprawling elegantly across it, paws and tail dangling over the edge.

"Greetings," an inhumanly deep and gravelly voice growled behind them, "I am here to see the ...veterinarian for a health check for my pet."

Karen and Brendan turned slowly, their minds frozen in shock. There by the gate stood the largest man they had ever seen in their lives, towering over them, clad in a strange approximation of biker gear, hair in a brutal short back and sides, the remains slicked back, gold rings glinting in his ears; but it was the eyes that scared Karen the most. Glacial and cold, they glinted with a strange curiosity. It reminded her far too much of some of the lions that she had the pleasure of looking after.

Her throat suddenly dry, Karen walked forward slowly. Careful, she thought, remember, non-threatening body language but be sure to show who's boss, be firm. "So...Artemis is here for her health check. Would it be all right if I had a closer look at her?" she gestured at the roof of the van where Artemis was now delicately licking a paw.

Karen's eye began to water slightly, but she refused to look away, and trusting to her instincts, she blinked slowly and deliberately. It was a sign of calm and trust in domestic cats so...worth a try, and if she got eaten she really wouldn't care would she...

Artemis apparently answered to her name, to an extent, as when Mr Carrow called her she surged off the van in a tide of glossy white fur, trotting over quite happily to head-butt her owner in the hip.

Steeling herself, Karen approached, but Artemis made no aggressive moves, and chuffed in greeting. So she chuffed back, getting to stroke a wide-awake and free roaming tiger for the first and possibly only time in her life. But she couldn't help but notice that her concerns of overfeed were unfounded; Artemis was nicely muscled with a defined waist. If anything she was a little on the thin side, though she wasn't behaving as if she were starved; she was obviously energetic and inquisitive, and relaxed enough to seek out high sunny places in which to bask...

"How much exercise does she get?" she asked, trying to divide her attention between the two apex predators. Hopefully Mr Carrow liked to talk about his beloved pet as much any normal person would. She was not to be disappointed.

"She accompanies me on my morning runs every day," Carrow smiled down at his little darling, "regardless of the weather, and I always cut through the woods on the way back. She so enjoys paddling in the stream..."

Karen listened in bemusement as she let the man talk.

"...and of course she occasionally brings back little presents, mostly alive. We try and find the owners of the canines, but we never did succeed with that little wire-haired rat thing, so one of the ladies-who-clean adopted it..."

Karen and Brendan surreptitiously exchanged glances. This wasn't quite what they'd imagined, some giant lunatic babbling about his dangerous pet while the tiger in question squirmed on the ground in front of them, playing with her own tail.

"...and when we had the new printer delivered she got into the empty box and absolutely destroyed it. We were finding little bits of polystyrene and cardboard lodged in strange places for days, though I will admit I did, err...save some, and I've been sneaking it into my secretary's desk drawers when he's not looking. You won't tell him, will you?" Carrow asked with narrowed eyes.

"Of course not," Karen said firmly, Brendan nodding frantically.

Artemis leapt up from her place at his feet with a snarl, jaws snapping to a close around the large man's throat too fast for thought. "No...no.." Karen managed to stutter out as visions of blood and gore stampeded through her horror stricken mind.

A strange rumbling sound shattered her dazed thoughts. What...he was..._laughing_? She watched dazed, as Carrow wrestled Artemis off himself, chuckling all the while. Where were his injuries? Shouldn't he at least pouring with blood...what...what was going on?

The big man turned to her with a manic grin. "She's so playful, such a delight," he said cheerfully as he ruffled Artemis's ears. "Look, she dented my skin!" He pointed to a near invisible mark on his neck.

OOOOOO

"Here we go, this is it, the Christmas special edition," Freya Phillips-Worthington smiled up at him, strands of wild hair escaping from her artful bun, her turquoise earrings jingling slightly as she shifted in her chair, pushing the magazine towards him. Timothy couldn't help but notice that she was wearing a skirt today, a moss green gored garment that fell to mid-calf. It had a slight texture, but he was fairly certain it wasn't corduroy. She'd teamed it with brown leather boots with sensible low heels, a paisley blouse that tied in a soft bow at the neck, and a tailored tweed jacket that had anachronistic leather elbow patches and trimming. Unconsciously, he tugged at the sleeves of his dolman, trying to hide the slight fraying of the cuff, aware of the discolouration of the gold braid on his front, and the small blood stain on his sash he couldn't quite get out.

Freya was so...refreshingly nice and perfect, and feminine in a way he really wasn't used to. Of course he worked with many different women, Juno, Athena, Annie and Caroline, not to forget Mrs Thorpe and her army of ladies who ran the Lodge.

But Juno was hard and professional, and Athena thought she was the Lodge's answer to Benny Hill- if he heard her version of "they don't like it up them" one more time...With Annie and Caroline, he could never quite forget he was a potential food source. Natasha seemed to think he'd got a never ending supply of blood-pops, and Mrs Thorpe and her ladies were all old enough to be his mother, or, in several cases, his grandmother. Freya was different, nice, and engaged to a nice sensible young man, with a nice sensible job (accountant), a range-rover, a golden retriever called Bonnie, and a nicely restored 18th centaury farm house somewhere in Devon. How could he possibly compete with that?

Cheeks flushing, Timothy realised he was staring, gave a small embarrassed smile, before turning his attention to the magazine spread before him on the table. The photograph on the front with its white border was...he blinked in surprise for a moment...it was the staircase he walked up and down every morning, looking beautiful and unfamiliar, its strap-work caught just so, the jumble of carpets glowing jewel like against the dark wood. How did these clever professional photographers do that? When he'd tried taking a picture in that spot, everything had come out all dull and dingy looking.

He flicked the cover open, bypassing the usual wad of expensive adverts to the contents page, which seemed oddly single-minded. He turned to Freya, his expression puzzled.

"The entire issue is dedicated to the Lodge," she gave him a smile, "so even the product articles are themed around this lovely old house." She gestured around her. "We had great fun sourcing some really beautiful carpets."

"Well, I suppose we do have rather a lot of them," Timothy smiled, the scar through his lip tugging uncomfortably as he turned to the first article. It was all he could have hoped for, beautiful pictures of the house he'd come to love, but looking at it in ways he'd never considered before. He frowned thoughtfully at a photograph of the very room they were in, the geometry of the Norman architecture of the Breakfast Room looking particularly striking. He paced over to where he guessed it must have been taken from, Freya watching him in concern.

"I'd never noticed that before," he said, showing her the picture. "If you stand just...here," he shifted sideways considering the view out through the Orangery and into the garden beyond carefully, "the pillars in the room mirror the frontage of the Tudor wing over there. Accidental, do you think...or deliberate?" He looked between the two.

Freya smiled at him, rolling her eyes with amusement. "I suppose there's a similar underlying mathematics between the two styles, plus the ever present Classical influence." She led him back to the table. "How much sleep did you get last night?"

Timothy grumbled softly to himself; why did women always want to mother him?

The articles continued, each one concentrating on a different aspect of the house; the Norman keep, the Tudor extension, the various collections of object d'art, the collection of paintings, Charlus Potter and his collection...there was even one devoted to the various wall coverings, wall papers and the like, including a picture of his bedroom. He examined the picture carefully; to his relief, it appeared that he had managed to corral any stray socks and underwear. There was even a little bit about Artemis, with a wonderful picture of her rolling luxuriantly on a Tibetan tiger rug, big blue eyes staring straight out of the image at him, curious and innocent.

And then...he froze, staring at the double-spread image. He didn't remember this one being taken at all. Carrow was seated to the left, sitting on his favourite chair, the one with all the little gothic niches, lounging really. Clothed in his cassock like robe, the light just catching the embossed leather, he stared straight out, his green eyes glacial and inhuman, just the hint of a cruel smile in the curl of his lips, and across from him, leaning against the breakfast table, was a tall and cadaverously thin figure dressed in close fitting black, arms crossed over his chest. Timothy blinked in surprise; did he really look like that? So hard and cold...

It really was a startling photograph, these two dark and dangerous figures in the bright and angular space of the Breakfast room. He turned it so Freya could see.

"Ooh, I really like that picture," she said as she examined it with a thoughtful frown, "I like the way you mirror each other in a way."

"We do?" Timothy didn't know whether to be outraged or flattered being compared to the Giant Lump.

"Hmm, in a way," she said, her chin resting on the knuckles of one hand, "your dress, your wariness, your...toughness, I suppose...not quite the same, but complimentary. I think it's a rather wonderful portrait of the two of you. Talking of which, has Carrow thought of having his portrait painted, to add to the family collection?"

Timothy considered it for a moment; it was a rather good idea, a continuation of the family history of the Potters. "Do you know any good portraitists?" he asked.

"Not personally," Freya gave a small laugh, "but I can make enquiries for you."

Timothy couldn't help but smile. "Thank you, I really appreciate it..."

"No, _thank you_," Freya said seriously, "this has been such an incredible career making opportunity for me...it's the least I can do."

"I, err...you're welcome." Timothy shifted awkwardly in his chair trying not to flush. "I wasn't sure what you'd make of a house this, err, _unique_. Mr Carrow will be very pleased when he sees it."

"And rather puzzled too," Freya commented with a smirk.

Probably not as puzzled as she'd think, Timothy thought. It would be much more likely that the large man was wondering why he was being bothered with something so trivial and what all the fuss was about anyway...

There was a tentative knocking at the door. "E...excuse me." They turned to find a middle aged lady clad in sensible outdoor clothing stood in the doorway. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Faulks, but erm...have you seen Bernard anywhere? He's wandered off, _again_. I think he said something about a Chapel...but we're supposed to be inspecting this Roman mosaic the archaeologists have uncovered...and I can't see him anywhere. I've already asked Mrs Thorpe...and this building is such a warren!" She shrugged helplessly.

Timothy groaned, rubbing his forehead. "Not the Chapel again," he muttered. "Alright Daphne, we'll find him for you. Wonder if he's stuck in one of the attics again?" He pulled himself to his feet.

"Chapel?" Freya leaned forward with a gleam in her eyes. "I've not seen a Chapel...and Roman mosaics...where are those? A new discovery?" she asked eagerly.

Timothy shifted nervously. "Yes, the mosaics were discovered when the archaeologists decided to lift a few slabs in the cellar under the Norman keep..."

OOOOOO

Fancy being back at Hogwarts; it was amazing where his job took him, Charlie Weasley thought with a grin, as he patrolled around the edge of the massive clearing they had set up as a temporary dragon sanctuary for the three clutching mothers. All was quiet as these ladies were not particularly diurnal in nature. He paused a moment to take in the scene, a Swedish Short-snout called Agnetha, Peony the Chinese Fire-ball, and of course his favourite, the comparatively small, and definitely not common, Common Green Welsh, Bronwyn. What a beautiful sight...and when he turned and looked the other way...there was Hogwarts castle glowing softly in the first rays of sunrise, rising above the mist that rose off the lake like some enchanted sorcerer's dwelling from a fairy tale, with all its turrets and towers...absolutely magnificent.

Peony stirred slightly, giving the eggs protected within her coils a sleepy inspection, before settling back to rest. Charlie watched her in appreciation; she was such a beautiful creature, strong and lithe, covered in smooth glossy crimson scales with a crest of spines like a mane around her leonine head. It was so stressful for clutching mothers to be moved around and used for this sort of thing; stupid bureaucrats and politicians, with their clever voter-impressing ideas. Charlie sighed softly to himself. At least the girls all looked healthy and happy at the moment; he and the rest of the team would fight to keep it that way, too.

The distant sound of voices caught his attention, so with a frown he went to investigate. Who could it be at this hour? Certainly not students, they'd mostly be in bed to the last possible moment if they were anything like he and his friends had been, particularly after a homework all-nighter. So, was it people from Hogsmeade, hunting in the forest maybe? If so he was going to send them packing.

Charlie's jaw dropped as he took in the small cavalcade of students, about a dozen if he was any judge, all dressed in heavy boots and splodgy patterned jackets and trousers in shades of sludgy green and brown he vaguely remembered Ronnie calling camo, and all of them were carrying large heavy looking backpacks.

"Hey, Charlie," one of the lead runners called out, his voice tinged with surprise.

Charlie did a double-take; Ronald I-don't-get-up-before-midday Weasley was up and active before seven in the morning. Would wonders never cease?

"Hey Charlie, are you all right?" Ron said as he trotted up, voice tinged with concern.

Charlie shut his mouth with a clack. "Erm, of course Ron...what are you doing up so early?"

"Defence Club," Ron grinned, "what are _you_ doing here?" He peered round his older brother, his eyes going wide as he took in the clearing and its current inhabitants. "Wow, _dragons_," he breathed taking several steps forward until Charlie put an arm in his way.

"That's as far as you go, Ronnie," he looked severely at his youngest brother, "it's not safe for someone without the correct training." Charlie honestly expected protests of even some token whining (the Twins would have) but Ron just nodded and backed away. It looked like Ron was growing up.

"So are you going to introduce me?" Charlie asked with a small smile.

"Oh...yes, of course," Ron tore his eyes away from the dragons, "you've met Hermione of course..."

Charlie nodded politely at the cold-eyed young woman whose brutal haircut was currently hidden under an ugly metal helmet. "And this is Greg...Millie...Neville...Su Li...Colin...Susan..."

Taking in the youngsters, Charlie suddenly realised there were members of all four houses here, standing together with a common interest, no bickering or fighting or snide remarks, and his little brother had been instrumental in bringing this about. Impressive.

And then the questions started.

"Are they for the tournament thingie?"

"Is it one each for the contestants..."

"Why can't we have Quidditch too?"

"...or do they have to fight all three?"

That was said a little too eagerly for Charlie's taste.

"Would you put in a word for us about the Quidditch? It's so unfair they cancelled it!"

"Do they have to fight the dragons to the death?"

"Erm...no," Charlie looked down at the petite girl in some concern. Su Li was starting to concern him; she seemed very...obsessed.

"Well, that's going to be boring," someone commented in disgust, "where's the fun in that?"

Charlie looked around the group of children in surprise; just what was going on here? He looked questioningly at Ron hoping for some sort of answer, only for Ron to shrug. "Not going to be very interesting to watch is it," he explained still eyeing the dragons speculatively, "wonder how much we'd get for fresh dragon hide? Bet Uncle Sev would know."

The girl beside him nodded. "He's bound to, might even like some fresh ingredients..."

"Right, you lot," Charlie snapped, "if I find so much as a scratch, or a missing scale on any one of these dragons, I will be placing the blame at your feet. Do you understand?" he glared around the sullen group, one of whom was now inexplicably a young grizzly bear. Where, oh where, had his nice peaceful morning disappeared to?

"Just saying," Ron grumbled, "_honestly_."

OOOOOO

Sirius scowled as yet again one of the idiots said, "what are we to do about Carrow?" He rolled his eyes in bored frustration as he shifted uncomfortably on his seat. It was rather cramped in old Elphias Dodge's Ministry Office, what with it now having about ten people stuffed in a space more able to accommodate half that number. What if a small swarm of doxies dived out of a dusty desk drawer? He carefully hid his grin. What a fantastic idea, all he needed was an illusion, and he knew just the spell. Slipping his wand from his pocket, he held it low down hidden by a knee, and took careful aim...

"Sirius, my boy, has Allesandor mentioned anything about his plans for Christmas?"

Sirius's head snapped round, his guilty expression hastily suppressed. "Erm," he said intelligently as Dumbledore peered at him over his glasses with a knowing smile, his sharp blue eyes not missing a trick. "Err...not really," he muttered, "that's if I understood his rant correctly. I don't think he celebrates Christmas much."

"A shame," Dumbledore nodded with a sad smile, "everybody deserves to spend time in the company of family and friends...well, maybe that will mean he will be free to attend the Yule Ball," Dumbledore said sweetly.

Sirius hunched down in his chair. Somehow he just knew he was about to be asked to do something horrible. And he wasn't disappointed...

"Sirius, you're close to Allesandor. I think it would be best if you informed him that, as official Ministry Representative, he is expected to attend. Now..." Dumbledore turned to his stack of rather dog-eared parchment. "I did notice another possible avenue of attack on our dear Under Secretary's latest block to our bill..."

Sirius slumped in horror, letting the conversation wash over him. Tell the giant lump that he was expected to go to a _party_...with most likely _dancing_. His mind temporarily blanked as his evil subconscious gleefully decided to present him with an image of Carrow doing a jig.

Shaking himself, trying to get rid of the hideously mentally scarring image, he turned back to the conversation. He wasn't that interested in politics, but it was the life-blood of all the old Dark families, and so he had grown up (rather reluctantly) with stories of the inner workings of the Ministry; the more he sat in on these meetings, the more it felt like they were being herded by the Giant Git, aka the Senior Undersecretary, aka his darling little Godson (and still no one had been nice enough to give him a satisfactory explanation as to the outrageous age discrepancy), so they'd worked through the maximum degree of relatedness of who would now be entitled to inherit. The Headmaster had wanted to include third cousins twice removed but Carrow had crushed that one, pointing out that due to the huge amount of intermarriage that went on in Wizarding Britain that could mean just about _anyone_, so they were now down to first cousins once removed, which was much more manageable. But that had just been the start; then there had been the massive row over criminal records, then it had been about magical children from squib lines (Carrow was for, the Traditionalists were ferociously against), then some bright spark (who Sirius could have heartily kicked) had cheerfully asked, that if these hypothetical people could inherit the seat, whether could they inherit other family assets too, which had turned into a nasty spat lasting well over a month. He'd got so bored by it all he'd snuck several muggle motorcycle magazines in, charmed to look like back-issues of the Quibbler.

Now they were on to whether this seat inheritance thingy included werewolves, vampires and the like. Carrow was strangely positive on this front, one of the few times he agreed with the terrible man. Everybody else was proving rather...reluctant, though it looked annoyingly like the Headmaster was sitting on the fence with this one.

"But what are we going to do about Carrow?" someone yapped.

Sirius groaned; would anyone notice if he decided to bang his head against the wall? He warily eyed the nearest one; roughly dressed stone, maybe not. He couldn't wait to get out of here. Maybe he could persuade Remus to go to the muggle cinema with him. He loved the cinema, a really loud clashy, bangy, action movie with people jumping off exploding things...and helicopters...and popcorn. Oh yes, and the glory that was pic'n'mix. Maybe he could sneak some past Moony who was busily turning into a boring old man, and been really mean and banned him from cinema sweets. All he'd done was run up all the stairs (as a dog) and then tobogganed down on his stomach (as a man). Maybe he should get Moony a zimmer-frame for Christmas, or how about a really brown argyle cardigan and matching tartan carpet slippers? Oh yes, he sniggered to himself, that had real possibilities.

A burst of fire and song announced the arrival of Fawkes, and for the first time that morning, Sirius gave a huge and genuine smile. He beamed happily as he watched Dumbledore remove a rather muggle looking envelope from his over-excited familiar. Curious as to who was writing to the Headmaster, Sirius craned his neck hopefully as he watched the older man open his letter, his eyebrows rising ever higher as he read.

"How very typical," Dumbledore murmured as he opened out the envelope flat and placed it in the centre of Dodge's desk. "And how very vexing," he commented to the room in general as he continued to frown down at his letter, oblivious to Fawkes' antics as he rolled around on the envelope crooning and cooing in delight...till Dodge tried to get a look at the address and nearly got his fingers bitten for his troubles.

"It appears," Dumbledore actually glared at Sirius, "that your dratted Godson has been playing us for fools. According to his Swiss friend, erm...Professor Schmidt, Carrow fully supports the Right of Inheritance Bill, but feels that it would be politically unwise to show his hand. How can one man be so utterly annoying?"

"I notice he's _my_ Godson when he's being a pain in the backside," Sirius muttered...but not too loudly.

oOo

Carrow shifted uncomfortably on his office chair. Pulling himself to his feet, he stretched, carefully working out the kinks in his back. Despite it being designed specifically for him, he still got painfully stiff; Astartes were just not meant to sit still for long periods of time. Unfortunately, the many roles he had taken on all required paper-work and lots of it.

Currently, he was wading through a variety of reports from his inner Ministry network, some of it rather interesting. He'd recently subverted key members of the Department of Muggle affairs, as well as arranging for several more to have tragic accidents. This was enabling him to tear the Throne cursed organisation apart, ripping through years of corruption and vice, and already it was reaping dividends, resulting in a distinct improvement in the rather rocky relationship between the muggle Police and the Auror Department. Now if he could improve relations with the non-magical government too, it would work in rather well with some of the donations he'd been making to the main political parties within the wider community...

A knock at his door distracted him from his thoughts. Was he expecting anyone? Ah, Headmaster Dumbledore had been holding a meeting with his allies. He expectantly opened the door to find Elphias Dodge standing outside, and a suspicious Timothy watching them carefully with narrowed eyes. He grinned at his young apprentice; it was good to see him developing the right mentality.

Walking around his desk he took his seat, setting up the dicta quill as Elphias Dodge watched.

"Ave Imperator. Laudamini in nomine eius," he intoned.

Elphias Dodge slumped forward slightly, his eyes glazing over before standing up unnaturally straight, gaze flat and unseeing.

"Ave Imperator," he ground out his voice emotionless and mechanical, "cum nostris actibus ipsum laudamus. Unit. Delta. Zeta. Epsilon. Three. Zero. Four. Operational."

"Report," Carrow snapped, settling back. It had been such a wonderful opportunity when Rookwood's spy network had been revealed to him. Since then he'd adapted it more to his particular liking and even expanded it...

" .14.11.095.M2. Albus Dumbledore and Allies." Dodge ground out, "Persons present. Sirius Black. Elphias Dodge. Augusta Longbottom..."

OOOOOO

The sound of Moody answering enthusiastic questions drifted over to them as they walked back to the Castle, Madam Pomfrey striding ahead, her shoulders rigid and furious, but Ron and Hermione were too preoccupied to take much notice. They had a plan to devise, _Retrieve A Tome,_ or maybe _Operation Rescue Book...Free the Amazing Book _...Ron's ideas ran out after that, and he'd given up in the face of Hermione's eye rolling, but how were they going to go about this? The logistics involved were quite considerable; they had a rough idea that the book was in Professor McGonagall's office, somewhere...but then of course there were all the problems associated with breaking into a professor's office. He'd had a little chat with the Twins about it. Their stories, though likely exaggerated, were hair-raising; he hadn't realised Professor McGonagall had such a twisted sense of humour, and he thought Uncle Sev was bad. So no, he didn't want to break through the office door only to find himself transfigured into a nice set of nesting tables for a few days. Which left the window, but of course Hogwarts being the highly magical environment it was, the hypothetical outside location didn't necessarily match up with the expected interior even half the time...so they were currently stuck, thoroughly bogged down and busily going round in ever decreasing circles.

"Um...Hey Ripper," a voice came from behind them. They whirled on the spot adrenalin pumping at almost being caught plotting burglary. Greg stood there, Millie and Neville at his shoulders, an unusually worried frown on his face just visible under the thick smears of mud. "Erm... I...we've been thinking...erm, that is..." he looked around furtively but Grizzly only gave him an encouraging nod, a peculiar gesture for a bear.

"Right," Greg visibly pulled himself together, "that book, you can't go after it, because Professor McGonagall will smell a rat straight away and immediately suspect you. We're volunteering for _Operation Audacious Tome Retrieval_," he looked between them his expression unreadable.

Ron had a funny feeling that this was a sort of defining moment for the Defence Club and their friendship with the rest of the school, a final act that would cement its desperate parts...a harbinger for the future...

"You have a very good point," Hermione said slowly, "and we weren't really getting anywhere with our plans either, so...so I accept," she snapped off a salute, "Operation Audacious Tome Retrieval is go!"

Greg did his best to imitate the salute, a huge grin breaking out over his face. "We won't disappoint, we've already got some ideas..."

"Which you mustn't tell us," Hermione interrupted, "what we don't know...well, we can't tell, can we?" she smirked.

"What she said," Ron agreed.

OOOOOO

It was surprisingly warm in the outdoor cafe, the God-Emperor of Mankind thought, as he gazed up at the sky, watching in fascination as the light snow appeared to vanish several feet above his head. How had they done it, he wondered as he sipped his chocolate sprinkled latte, and did it have anything to do with the local heat-bubble, some sort of ward maybe? He'd finally managed to scrounge some time off work, and so had decided to treat himself to a nice day out, looking at book shops, sitting in cafes and just generally relaxing in Bern's Magical quarter.

He'd brought the latest package from Aquila Industries' R&amp;D people as well. It was fairly hefty, and that always boded well for an interesting read; no tapes this time, unfortunately, but you couldn't have everything. He slipped the contents out on to the table; what looked like a wad of letters from various people, probably half the department looking at it, a fat and rather formal looking paper entitled _A_ _Theory of Bladed Energy Weapons, and its Practical Application_, and a couple of folders, which, he had a quick flick through, promised plans and photographs of some sort of weapon. Not a bad haul.

The paper proved to be absolutely fascinating, and he read it through, first the introduction and the preface, and then the sheer volume of experimental results and number crunching that made up the middle as he worked his way through his second and third lattes. So they were actually trying to make a "power" sword, a weapon with an energised aura that could cut through just about anything if they got it working right. He turned to the first appendix, an analysis of Carrow's power sword; there were even photos, taken with the man's permission, of the interior working, as much as he'd allow it to be disassembled, of course. He eyed a diagram carefully, and compared it to the massive sword. Well, that would logically be the power source, and that looked like some sort of...solid state circuitry, maybe etched into a crystal...but those wires to its left were so obviously jerry-rigged...such a conundrum...and just behind that, it looked like some sort of power coil, maybe. He couldn't wait to actually have a look at this fine weapon himself; it was likely that Carrow would let him if he asked nicely enough, after all.

The first folder contained plans and diagrams for a "power" sword (seriously, they'd got to think of a better name than that), based heavily from the look of it on Carrow's, but sized for a normal person. The hilt looked quite bulky, what with the power module and battery case built into it. Was it armoured in some way? Because it would definitely need protection from blows, and how were they going to compensate for the weight difference it would cause, would the blade be weighted in some way...forged with this in mind? Definitely an interesting problem.

But what if they got round it by getting rid of the blade all together, just kept the energy...like a...like a light-sabre...that would be so cool. He looked at the last runic diagram again with a thoughtful frown, before turning to the next folder.

Ah...looks like they'd had that idea themselves, he thought as he pulled out a veritable essay on the theory behind a blade-less power sword, that they were obviously trying very hard not to call a light-sabre. It appeared they were having trouble with the focusing crystal; he scanned through the table of result data, not uniform in size and shape, he suspected, maybe internal impurities...couldn't be helped with a naturally occurring material. Maybe they could try artificially growing one, surely that was something these..._wizards_ could do.

The God-Emperor took a sip of coffee, grimacing when he found it had gone cold. Had he really been sitting here that long?

He nearly missed the junk-shop as he trailed down the alley on his way home. A narrow shop, it was stuffed uncomfortably between an apothecary and a ladies' robe emporium. The window display was fascinating, a riot of battered old furniture, enchanted trinkets and dusty old books. An elderly cat curled up in a wicker chair looked up at the sound of the tinkling bell as he entered.

It was even more fascinating inside. He looked around unable to contain his grin as he took in all the new and fascinating magical objects just begging to be taken apart and examined.

He was rifling through a pile of bags when he found it. It was just under a pile of threadbare shoulder bags, a small unassuming appearing draw-cord bag that appeared to be made of leather, though what kind he was unsure, but when he peeked inside...

...it was a pocket-dimension, an actual pocket dimension. Oh...just, _wow_. He so had to have this, he thought as he turned, only to find himself face to face with...well, an elderly lady, obviously the shop owner, stood there, leaning on a gnarled stick, gazing up at him in wide-eyed surprise. The God-Emperor smiled down at her. "Hello, I love your shop it's amazing...erm, what's it made of?" he said with a sheepish grin holding the pouch up for her inspection.

The old lady stared up at him a moment with her oddly slivery eyes, obviously nervous. "M...moke skin...it's a moke skin pouch," she stuttered shuffling back a bit.

"Oh, wow thank-you," the God-Emperor hunched down a little, trying to be less threatening. Crouching down he turned to her with a smile. "Did you know it had got a pocket dimension inside?"

OOOOOO

Snape knocked on the office door, carefully watching the corridor in case any of the little brats were hanging around. It was an hour before the Defence Club went on their morning run, but some of the members had been known to turn up early; over eager little lunatics.

"Who is it?" snarled Moody's familiar voice through the door.

Snape gave his only protection from the grumpy old Auror a sideways look. Who knew that old Mad-Eye was like a troll with a sore head in the morning? No wonder the old man had managed to eliminate so many Death Eaters in the last war. His over-eager very ex-allies had obviously kept trying early morning ambushes. You'd have thought they would have learnt better after the first few times.

The door wrenched open revealing a wild and tousled Moody, wand at the ready, glaring furiously at whoever had dared disturb his morning this early. "Oh, it's you," he grunted, staring suspiciously past Snape. "Well, come in then."

Snape slipped past the other man, pulling out several vials of philtres and elixirs, and a couple of muggle paperbacks. "I've brought your potions for the..."

"The Cabbage," Moody growled, "thanks, now lea..."

"...and this one is for you," Snape interrupted holding up an amber coloured vial. Moody eyed it suspiciously. "To assist your speedy recovery from your ordeal," Snape explained, "a nutrient potion combined with a heal-all elixir."

Moody shuffled over, glaring blearily, and took the offered vial with a muttered "thank you." Downing it in one go, he grimaced. "Damn, that tastes disgusting," he grumbled, "you got those books I asked you about?"

Snape waved the paperbacks at him with a small smirk. "Fantastic," Moody grinned as he snatched them, eyeing the covers, "Agatha Christie, and Raymond Chandler...hmm, I'll enjoy these. Thanks lad, it's much appreciated."

"I've got plenty more," Snape gave him a small smile, "and...him?" He nodded towards the trunk, still in its place in the corner.

Moody glared darkly. "Nasty, vicious little thing; bored too. He's currently plugging me for all the news he can get...I've even thought about muggle papers just to stop him from whinging, but I don't know how well it would go down. As for his plans, he's keeping them close to his chest. All I can ascertain is that that foul box is some sort of last resort." He sighed heavily. "Personally, I want to blast it with fiendfyre...I suppose _himself_ will want this all written up in a report?"

"Oh yes," Snape grinned, "in triplicate."

OOOOOO

"So we're agreed, then?" Greg looked around the circle of his fellow conspirators. They nodded their heads, expressions full of determination.

"Cause distractions," Neville said.

"Get into mild trouble," Millie chewed her lower lip with a worried frown, "though I'm not sure of a suitable prank. I don't want to target a house or individual...if anyone's got any suggestions?" She looked around hopefully.

"There's always the portraits," Colin suggested. "Erm..." he froze as they all stared at him, "they're everywhere," he shrugged with an apologetic smile, "maybe you could give them all funny hats or something..."

Millie nodded thoughtfully. "Good idea. Looks like I need to chat to the Terror Twins. Should be fun," she grinned evilly.

"And we stagger it out over a week...or longer, so we're not too suspicious," Su Li added.

Greg nodded. "And that means that Colin then has the cover he needs to do the deed." He looked at the smaller boy carefully. "Of us all, you're the least suspicious looking one, the one most likely to be able to pull this off."

"And when Colin gets into position, then we cause a distraction," Neville said with a grin.

"Exactly," Greg grinned.

OOOOOO

"Right, Simmons...Davis. In the pit with you," Moody growled happily, "let's see what you're made of."

The two Ravenclaw seventh years clambered down into the duelling pit, their classmates gathering around the edge, hanging over the railings, eager to watch them duel. Simmons gulped, fiddling with his glasses and adjusting his stance, Davis squaring her shoulders, a look of steely determination on her face.

"Begin," Moody roared causing the students nearest him to jump. Simmons and Davis leapt into action, both letting loose with multiple spells, dodging, ducking and weaving, searching for a point of weakness in the other's defence.

Moody prowled around the top, watching appreciatively as the two slugged it out. He had to admit Carrow was probably the best thing that had happened to Hogwarts in decades; the calibre of some of these students...he'd been promoting the Auror department as an excellent career choice as much as he could. A few were reluctant of course; maybe he could arrange a sort of day-trip, take them to the department and run them through some recruit level training exercises, show them some of the reality.

He ducked as a stray spell whistled past his ear, grinning happily. The students just lapped up these practical classes, throwing themselves into the recommended reading he asked of them, handing in wonderful essays and even doing independent research, surprising him with the breadth and depth of their knowledge. He'd been particularly impressed when one of the Hufflepuffs had come up with a very novel application for a sandpapering charm more commonly used in the making of furniture and the like.

Poppy had been furious for _days_.

The Duelling pit (obviously Carrow' idea) was excellent for sparring of all kinds, but he really wanted to go further than that, teach the little kiddiewinks the true meaning of constant vigilance, let them experience an ambush...or traps even...yes, that was a good idea, he grinned to himself, in relative safety of course, or Poppy would have his hide. But where to start?

He checked the time; Simmons and Davis had been trading spells and even blows for roughly two minutes now without a clear winner. Both were fast and vicious; Davis would do well on the International Duelling Circuit he was sure, while Simmons had a good mind, enquiring, insightful, with a deep love of others. He'd make an excellent Auror, if he could be persuaded.

"Time's up," he roared. Davis and Simmons staggered to a halt, breathing hard, Simmons resting his hands on his knees. "Good work, you two," Moody gave them a nod, "nice and light on your feet. Out you get."

The two teens scrambled to safety before they could be volunteered for another round.

"Right, McIntyre...Bennett...you're next," he growled, eyeing McIntyre carefully; her heart obviously wasn't in it. Last time she'd been hit a bit hard by a stray charm, she'd sat down and cried, and she was already shaking like a leaf now. At least Bennett was sensible, wouldn't go too hard on her. "Begin," he bellowed, ignoring McIntyre's terrified squeak.

He watched the resulting travesty with a heavy sigh. McIntyre wasn't even trying, cringing and squeaking every time anything got too close to her, staying in one place and relying far too heavily on shielding charms. Bennett was doing her best to be gentle, but was obviously frustrated by the lack of a challenge. As an act of kindness, he stopped them after a minute and sent Smythe in. Bennett over-compensated, and the two youngsters ended up over doing it, resulting in several minor injuries. Fortunately, Poppy wouldn't need to know. Then he sent Frobisher and Wently in. The two young men sized one another up, their enthusiasm for the coming fight evident in their bullishness and decidedly crude banter. "Cut the cackle," he glared at them, "now, begin!"

The resulting duel was the most violent one yet, neither side holding back as they went from trading hexes and insults, to rolling on the floor trying to punch one another, wands lying forgotten on the sand of the duelling pit floor. Moody grimaced at the pair, shaking his head in exasperation; from one extreme to another it seemed. Definitely not Auror material, either.

"Four feet in vampires, their traits, characteristics and lifestyle...everything you can find," Moody snapped at the slightly mauled looking students, who were now muttering and grumbling under their breath. So much for studious Ravenclaws, Moody thought. "To hand in next Wednesday," he continued, "when we will be discussing the facts and fallacies surrounding Vampires. Class dismissed," he roared.

The students stampeded for the doors in a messy rabble. Moody turned away with a shake of his head; bloody brats. He tidied the classroom with a few flicks of his wand, straightening chairs and vanishing stray pieces of parchment. He'd actually got a little bit of free time to himself now, since his marking was bang up to date. He'd finished the Christie; that Poirot had it easy, all the clues handed him on a plate. Now if he could just remember where he'd put the Chandler. Last he'd seen of it had been on his office desk with the pile of newspapers for Volde...oh Merlin, he must have taken it down with them...

"Uh, Sir?" a worried voice said behind him. Moody turned to find the students gathered in a nervous huddle round the door. "Sir," Simmons said again, "I think we might have a problem."

Moody shouldered his way through, grumbling to himself. This had better be important, more important than the portraits with ridiculous hats. He blinked in surprise as he looked down the corridor, and then he looked the other way. As far as he could see in both directions, it had been transformed into a slow flowing brook, hemmed in by bulrushes and yellow flowered irises, sedge grass and watercress. The pale flowers of water lilies peaked up above their flat leaves, while small ripples indicated sticklebacks as they came up to feed. A small surge in the water near his feet caught his attention as a water-vole swam past. An angry swan hissed at him, its mate eyeing him evilly.

Well...Merlin's bloody saggy ball-sack, there went his free-period, he snarled to himself.

OOOOOO

Shaking like a leaf, Colin Creevey knocked hesitantly on Professor McGonagall's door. He had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, and now the entirety of Operation _Audacious Tome Retrieval_ was resting on his shoulders. It felt as if he were carrying the weight of the world.

"Enter," the sharp, unforgiving tones of Professor McGonagall filtered through the thick oak door. Gulping nervously, Colin carefully opened it and sidled through trying to look as small and insignificant as possible in front of his terrifying Head of House.

"Sit," the command lashed through the air like a whip, Professor McGonagall pointing a thin bony finger towards the desk of shame specially kept for this purpose. Colin shuffled slowly over, slipping sideways on to the stool, trying not to catch the eye of the furious Professor, who was hunched behind her desk like a half-starved bird of prey presented with a gourmet tray of mouse.

Colin squeaked in fright as the irate Professor surged from her chair and stormed round her desk, slapping a small pile of partially used parchment and a threadbare quill in front of him. "Lines, _now_," she growled, "_I must not enchant or damage school property_. Carry on until I tell you to stop." She stormed back to the pile of second year essays on her desk.

Maybe attempting to enchant the suits of armour that littered the Castle to do the conga hadn't been such a good idea after all, but it had had the desired effect. Professor McGonagall had given him a week's worth of detentions...a week's worth of opportunities to find the book and retrieve it. He picked up the quill gingerly...

_I must not enchant or damage school property._

_I must not..._he began. Now all he had to do was wait...

OOOOOO

"Well, what do you think lad?" Moody turned to Snape as he gestured round the dusty corridor.

Snape observed the grime and cobwebs with a critical eye, arms folded over his chest. "I think the house-elves have been slacking," he said. Moody gave an un-amused snort.

"You're right, it would be a promising location for an indoor...obstacle course and training ground," Snape continued, not missing a beat. He nodded towards a shadowy alcove where a side passage slanted off at an angle to who knew where. "Good place for an ambush there. And over there," he pointed to a short passage that led to an unused teacher's quarters with nearby handy broom closet, "that also has potential."

Moody nodded happily. "That's what I thought," he growled, "split the class into teams, have one team set up an ambush and have the other team attempt to foil it."

"You could always add creatures too," Snape suggested, "there are plenty of Acromantula in the forest after all."

"Hmm...for the older years maybe," Moody paused at the intersection with another passage. "I've been thinking random traps too, the usual, you know...falling rocks...flesh-eating plants, though that might take some coaxing with Pomona...sudden rains of aqua regia...that sort of thing." He poked a mouldy old tapestry with a look of disgust.

"Carrow trained the little brats to kill creatures for four months," Snape said cheerfully, "he was just starting to show how to apply it to people, when the Headmaster found out and put a stop to it...I can just imagine him bringing some Knockturn alley scumbag into a class, suitably maimed for the little darlings to kill by inches..."

Moody shook his head with a laugh. "That man, talk about a one track mind. You know where I can get some aqua regia from?"

Snape smirked at his back. "Leave it to me. I'm sure I can get you several gallons for a reasonable price."

Moody turned back to him looking, to Snape's surprise, rather sheepish. "There's something I've got to tell you," the older man began, instantly setting Snape's warning bells ringing. "Er...you know you leant me those books..."

Snape nodded slowly, expression carefully neutral.

"Well, I err...got one of them mixed up with those...papers," Moody looked around cautiously, his artificial eye spinning manically, "and...well the long story short, _he_ enjoyed it, the Chandler, and then demanded I supply him with the next one."

Snape stared. The Dark Lord, the ultimate hater of all things muggle was demanding to read modern classics of muggle fiction. He shook himself, an evil grin slowly spreading across his face.

"Do you have the next one?" Moody asked, looking distinctly embarrassed.

"Of course," Snape smirked, "I've built up quite a collection of muggle fiction over the years...and who are we to deny _him_ the pleasure of a good read?"

OOOOOO

By the third detention, Colin had to admit, he was feeling quite frantic. Did the others not have a plan? Had they forgotten? Were they just letting him stew in own juice for fun?

An explosion rocked the office, followed by crackles, bangs, shrieks and shouting. Professor McGonagall threw down her quill with a furious snarl that was followed by something in Gaelic that Colin suspected was rather rude. Storming to the door, she yanked it open, billowing out into the corridor in a manner that would have done Professor Snape proud, the door shutting behind with a very final sounding clack.

Colin blinked in the sudden silence. He was finally alone. This was it.

Slowly, he slid his wand out of his sleeve under the edge of the table and cast a Picture Snooze charm at the portrait hanging behind the teacher's desk. It wasn't the more advanced and more modern Picture Freezing Charm that most adults favoured, but rather a little piece of old family magic Mille had shown him that would merely send a portrait to sleep. It only lasted twenty minutes though, and wasn't entirely reliable even when cast properly, so he had to work as quickly and quietly as he could and pray the Professor hadn't warded every single drawer and shelf in her office in a fit of paranoia.

He quickly cast a look over the bookcase that stood to one side, but it was mostly Transfiguration journals and texts, the odd knick-knack and a...muggle book on cat breeds. He blinked in surprise carefully putting it back. There hadn't been anything visible behind the books when he'd pulled the odd one out, which left...he looked around...a couple of filing cabinets on the other side of the desk, and the desk itself. The filing cabinets proved to be full of official documents and papers. If the book was in among them it would take _weeks_ to find, and so he turned to the desk. A plain mahogany affair, it had three drawers to the right of the knee-well. Carefully, Colin cast the one basic detection spell he'd been able to master, watching the drawers with increasing anxiety. To his relief they glowed a soft green, so all clear then, or...all clear to his basic charm, anyway. He slowly reached out to the top drawer; if it was warded, he was going to be in the sort of trouble that...well, frankly his mother would be getting his body back in a box, a small cardboard one at that.

The drawer failed to bite his fingers off or even scream, so gingerly he pulled it open...more papers, a box of brass pins, a paper bag of toffees...

He moved down a drawer...even more spare parchment; how much did the Professor need? A sizable stash of half-usable quills, and a...small felt ball, that jingled when he gently gave it a shake. He put it back, feeling embarrassed at the violation of Professor McGonagall's privacy; and that was when he saw it, one leather corner peeking out from in among the stack of parchment. Carefully, he pulled the book out, flicking open the front cover. There inside was the familiar gothic hand, _to further your studies_...

This was it.

He carefully shut the drawer, and scampered back to the little student desk, roughly shoving the incriminating book at the bottom of his bag, just under his camera. With a sigh of relief he returned to his lines..._I must not..._

At least that was the worst bit over; now all he had to do was get to the end of the detention without the Professor getting suspicious when she returned...if she returned.

"_...enchant or damage school property."_

"_I must not enchant or damage school property."_

"_I must not enchant or damage school property."_

Professor McGonagall stormed back into the office, scowling darkly and muttering to herself. Colin, engrossed in his writing, shrieked in surprise, nearly falling sideways out of his chair.

"My apologies Mr Creevey, I didn't mean to startle you," Professor McGonagall said, looking more tired than he'd ever seen her.

"S'alright Professor," he squeaked, his face turning bright red, "I was concentrating really hard." He went back to his lines, trying to hide his embarrassment and guilt, but the Professor seemed too preoccupied to notice.

OOOOOO

Minerva was absolutely fuming. Of all the ridiculous things, even the Marauders hadn't done anything like that. What had they been _thinking?! _Enlarged slugs, and then trying to...to _fight_ from the back of them, as if they were some sort of medieval steed, throwing spells and vials of something explosive that she was going to get to the bottom of...and _slime,_ absolutely everywhere...and just because Argus knew some excellent cleaning charms now, instead of stopping them immediately he'd actually let them just get on with it, in case they did something even worse so he could give them even nastier detentions than the ones he was already planning...and she'd thought Neville Longbottom was such a nice _quiet_ boy. Honestly, the Castle had just got stranger and stranger ever since Carrow had made his appearance; Severus was one of the very few sane people left.

She could just hear Severus's voice ahead, from a corridor near the new DADA classroom, along with...Alastair? Now _that_ was an odd couple, considering the end of the war, and it didn't sound like they were arguing either...hmm, maybe Albus was onto something after all, with all his "let bygones be bygones" talk.

She rounded the corner. "Severus...can I have a mome..." She paused, blinked, blinked again, an awful and very familiar smell reaching her nostrils. "Alastair, _Severus, _what are you doing?" she shrieked in horror.

Severus frantically juggled the bottle of aqua regia he was carrying. "Minerva! Oh, we're just ah...just..." he carefully shuffled away from the enraged transfiguration Professor, who was now stalking up the corridor, looking remarkably like an enraged cat.

"Hello Minnie," Alastor grinned with a little wink, "we're just putting together a little something for the kiddiewinks, bit of a challenge for them."

"A _challenge_," Minerva hissed stalking forward, "a _challenge._ Do neither of you have an ounce of sense? They're _children _for Merlin's sake, and you think _aqua regia_ is in some way suitable? Just you wait till I tell Albus."

"Now, now Minnie," Alastor said waving a placating hand, "there won't be any need for that."

"Oh no?" she advanced menacingly on them, drawing her wand.

The two men backed away from the enraged witch, sparks coalescing around the tip of her wand. "Run lad," Moody shouted, hobbling away as fast as he could. Snape dumped the bottle as gentle as he could, and ran in the opposite direction. No point in bringing the heat down on both of them. Dashing round a corner and ducking behind a tapestry and up a hidden corridor, he slowed to a stroll, surely he had lost her by now...a flurry of fabric and a shrieked "Severus" had him running desperately, sprinting for the end of the corridor, but not fast enough. The pain was incredibly, an overpowered stinging hex right across the back of the thighs. Yelping, he stumbled to a halt, staggering into the wall, grabbing the back of his legs.

"What was _that_ for?" he gasped at his smirking colleague, "and why did you go after _me_?"

"That's for getting carried away," Minerva said triumphantly. "Honestly, what did you two think you were doing, trying to emulate the Great Big Lump? And as for chasing you, why, Severus, you're much more likely to get away, being all young and nimble, so I decided to save dear old Alastair for later," she twirled her wand, "I'm sure he'd appreciate a little reminder of why I bested him at Duelling when we were young and wet behind the ears."

OOOOOO

Flinching at imagined movement, Colin scurried from shadow to shadow, jerking back from the pale moonlight streaming through the leaded windows along the corridor, his bag hanging from his shoulder like a leaden weight, his breath coming out in frantic pants. Seeing a familiar landmark, a statue of a particularly ugly wizard with celery growing out of his ears, Colin steeled himself. Professor Moody was always lecturing them how the best laid plans often went wrong at the last possible moment when people relaxed and dropped their guard, thinking everything was okay now they were on the home strait. Colin had no intention of being one of those people who met a grizzly fate mere feet away from safety.

Carefully, he edged his way towards the Library and the secluded table Millie and Neville had agreed to meet him at. There should be just enough time before curfew, and if he found something to help with his charms homework all the better.

The Library was virtually empty by the time he reached it, just the odd grim looking NEWT and OWL student hunched over their notes, surrounded by books, and a panicked looking Hufflepuff first year doing last minute homework. Easing his way to the Charms section, he quickly found a couple of likely looking books, _Charms Theory for the Easily Confused _and _So You Didn't Know Teacups Could Dance, _and rounded the corner into Divination looking around furtively at the little frequented corner of the Library. It was just perfect for their purposes, though it appeared he'd got there first.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Colin nearly dropped his books, having to stuff his knuckles into his mouth to suppress a small scream. Whirling, he came face to face with an embarrassed looking Millie. "Err...sorry, didn't mean to make you jump."

"S'alright," Colin said shakily, trying to get his breathing under control. "Is Neville about?" he asked.

"Oh yes," Millie said, as she took a seat at the table, "he's just finding a book, something about flesh eating tropical plants, I think. He shouldn't be long."

Colin nodded, pulling out his Charms homework. "We've got a little time..."

When Neville appeared, the two were deep in their work, stray pieces of parchment littering the table among open books. With a grin he pulled up a chair. "Success, I take it?" he asked.

Colin nodded distractedly, chewing the end of his quill. "I've got the theory behind teacups doing the waltz and the tango...but what about the fox-trot," he muttered with a frown, digging back through his notes.

Millie and Neville shook their heads sadly, as Colin noted around in his bag, pulling out a black and unassuming book. Passing it to Neville, he went back to his homework.

Neville peeked inside, grinning slightly when he saw the familiar handwriting of probably the most terrifying Defence Professor he would ever experience in his life. He gave Mille the nod, before slipping the book safely into his school bag under a pile of Herbology and Transfiguration notes and a book on Duelling tactics. "Now we just need to think of a few more things to do; I've had a brilliant idea. I just need to get my hands on a cutting from one of the strangler vines in Greenhouse VI," he muttered conspiratorially as he flicked through his latest library find. Seeing Colin's puzzled expression he shrugged. "It'll look suspicious if it suddenly stopped, wouldn't it?"

Colin thought about it. "The mission only ends when the mission ends. Hmm... how about the enchanted ceiling...maybe we could get the little ducks to explode..."

OOOOOO

Carrow suppressed a sigh as he gazed around Headmaster Dumbledore's office. Maybe the man might have rearranged some of his trinkets, or added a new trophy or some such...but no such luck. He'd been able to take the exact same route to the window as he'd taken the last time his "Mentor" meeting had taken place...and the time before that...and the time before that. Maybe he should give the Headmaster some little gifts, something a little more _interesting_ than these spindly silvery things. He stared out the window at the dark damp forest beyond, trying to ignore Sirius Black's nervous chatter. Why was the man here? And still no one had been able to give him an adequate explanation of what a Godfather was and why he would need one.

It was turning into quite the trying day. He'd already had to sit through the disappointment that had been the first task of the school's little "international" tournament. Truly, the God-Emperor moved in mysterious ways, testing his patience and forbearance to the extreme.

There had been _dragons_ for Throne's sake, three of them! And did the ungrateful little brats appreciate this wonderful opportunity for gaining a magnificent trophy, like a dragon skin carpet, or a head to put on the wall? No, they did not, and their attempts to divert the creatures' attentions were amateur, even Diggory's! He thought he'd taught the young man better. When _he_ was a scout...

The officials were considerably more interesting. Mr Crouch of the Department for International Relations was certainly looking strained under that mask of professional indifference, obviously related to his son's escape, and of course Karkaroff. He grinned nastily; it was almost fun watching the little meat-bag sweat as he tried to watch him without seeming to, but even that paled after a while so he'd started a quiet commentary on the competitors' tactics. Headmaster Dumbledore had actually _glared_ at him, and told him to be quiet and _sit still_, and he thought he'd been making quite a valid point.

And now this Mentor meeting. He grimaced. Only three more years...

"...I'm sure Allesandor would have some ideas." Dumbledore's words jerked him back to the matter at hand. Faintly puzzled, he looked between the two men, searching their faces for any explanation of the topic of discussion. He found none.

Dumbledore sighed. "While we lost you to your cloud-gazing, Sirius and I were discussing investment possibilities, something that would improve the Black family finances and standing in society maybe. Do you have any..._legal_ suggestions?"

Carrow sneered mildly at such a smear on his honour, before giving the question some serious thought. Here was a golden opportunity to further indebt Black to him, but what to suggest? There were a number of businesses around, particularly in the Knockturn area which would benefit from investment from such as Black, but of course the area's reputation wouldn't exactly work towards improving his Godfather's reputation. He also doubted Black would want to get involved with Aquila Industries. Actually, _he_ wasn't sure he wanted Black near Aquila Industries. How about...oh yes...

"How about a...start-up venture, I believe they are called?" He looked at Black inquiringly. "The Weasley Twins presented me with a business plan they had put together for a...joke shop, I believe, selling their own products."

"A joke-shop," Black looked thoughtful, "a joke-shop, selling what precisely? You said _their own_ products?"

"Fred and George Weasley are quite the inventors." Carrow smirked at the thought of a demonstration of one of their latest inventions, a grenade like object, that when thrown produced copious amounts of foam (enough to fill a small room) that hardened to the consistency of permacrete. Carrow could think of at least a dozen useful applications for such an item, not all of them fatal, and, despite the Twins' protests that the "Marshmallow fountain" wasn't perfected yet, was impatiently waiting for them to set up business so he could place an order for five thousand.

"Indeed they are," Dumbledore watched him with a smile, "certainly worth looking into, Sirius. The younger Messers Weasley are just as much pranksters as their uncles ever were, but with an inventive streak the like of which I haven't seen in a long time.

"Now," the Headmaster pulled an item out of a drawer, "on to our next topic of conversation." He placed what Carrow now saw was a plain and rather battered looking manila envelope on the desk in front of him, a shockingly muggle item in the overwhelmingly magical office.

"I have been in touch with someone you might be familiar with," Dumbledore tapped the envelope with a long wizened finger, "a Professor Johann Schmidt, in Switzerland, and he sent me a very interesting letter just a few days ago. Would you like to see?"

Carrow prowled over to the desk, ignoring Black's flinch as he silently sidled round the spindly tables and past him, coming to a stop before the desk. He eyed the envelope suspiciously; the God-Emperor had been corresponding with mere mortals? He couldn't see any sign of duplicity on the Headmaster's face, and so he cautiously reached out a hand, searching, sensing...the familiar overwhelming aura of the God-Emperor reached out to him like a miniature sun twining round his fingers. Delicately, he pulled out the letter from its protection.

The contents were startling.

The God-Emperor of Mankind had deemed it necessary to inform others of the reasoning behind his actions, of his handling of the Right of Inheritance bill. Why? Had he failed in his duty to Humanity and the God-Emperor in some way and this was some sort of penance? Or was this some sort of test he must meet and overcome?

He stared out of the window, lost in thought. If this was some sort of challenge, then he would do everything in his power to rise up to it, to move the very Earth itself if need be. On his very life-blood, his gene-seed, his honour he swore it.

He must not fail.

OOOOOO

"Oh, this is brilliant," Hermione practically squeaked with glee as Neville handed the black book over with a grin.

"Here you go, Ripper. Enjoy!" the sometimes bear said cheerfully. "I've got some follow up pranks to plan. Do you think anyone would mind if I let Cleopatra out for a romp?"

A distracted Hermione frowned slightly as she flicked through her prize, her eyes never leaving the pages. "That could be fun," she said, "probably best to keep her from the first years, they might not cope if she plays rough with them."

Neville and Ron shared exasperated looks; book-fiends, what could you do?

Ron settled down with his transfiguration homework after that; might as well get something constructive done while he was waiting for Hermione to emerge from her bibliophilic haze. Fortunately, it wasn't a particularly large or thick book, but on the other hand, Professor Carrow was notorious for his small handwriting.

Sometime later, he sat back with a satisfied sigh as he examined the conclusion to his essay. Yes, it made sense and it reflected the main body, but didn't repeat it unnecessarily. It had been really worth the agony of persuading Hermione to teach him how to write an essay. She'd made him read this muggle book that was devoted to the topic on an obsessive level. Apparently, it wasn't the only one available, either. Muggles were weird.

Looking up, a cheerful comment on his lips, he was shocked to find Hermione with tears tracking down her cheeks, eyes wide with horror. "Hermione," he asked softly. Crawling over, he sat beside her, looping an arm around her shoulders. "Hermione, you all right?" he tried again.

"I nearly got us both killed, or worse," she whispered hoarsely. "We got off so lightly...look." She flipped back a few pages to a section with a particularly gruesome illustration. "I misread it the first time. It's not about raising daemons at all, it's more...you know how cryptic he can be...it's more precautions you must take when undertaking dangerous works of sorcery, and here...I knew I'd got the runes the wrong and made a passive sort of gate, but it looks like I might have weakened that part of reality..."

"What?" Ron stared, horror rising at the back of his mind. "So something could push through from the other side?"

"Exactly," Hermione nodded.

"But...what?" Ron asked.

Hermione rubbed at an eye with the back of a hand. "We're better off not knowing. We're going to have to make sure no unsuspecting students can stumble on it."

Ron nodded slowly. "Okay, like hide the door sort of thing."

"Yeah, probably for the best," Hermione sighed, "and there's a purification ritual we both urgently need to do, in case we even looked at...something...on the other side. Just to make his point, Professor Carrow included an envelope..." she flicked to the back, "he claims that it was handled by the, err...God-Emperor of Mankind himself. Here, just...touch it," she pointed to the unassuming manila envelope.

Ron reached out puzzled, intent on turning it to view the address. He'd heard so much about this God-Emperor, admittedly third and fourth hand through Hermione mainly, but he sounded extraordinarily like something out of a myth...

...he jerked his hand back with a yelp, his fingers tingling as if they'd been zapped with a stinging hex, blinking as if sun dazzled. What in Merlin's name was _that_?

Hesitantly, he reached out again, his fingers almost burning as he tweaked a corner of the envelope managing to flip it over...and there was the address, just...

_Allesandor Carrow,_

_The Lodge,_

_United Kingdom._

...written in the most extraordinary handwriting he'd ever seen, every curve and line taught with tension, vibrating with pent-up energy. Professor Babbling had shown them an activated runic-stone once, in their very first class, just to show them where the study of runes could lead them. It was a poor shadow of _this_.

He licked dry lips. "This...God-Emperor, he's the, err...deity Brother Chaplain Caius is a priest of, isn't he?"

Hermione nodded, looking into the distance sadly.

"Didn't you notice," Ron continued, "that some of the other students were following his sermon, and even joining in with the prayers..."

Hermione's head snapped round. "I did," she said slowly, "Brother Chaplain Caius is building an Imperial Cult within the school," she murmured thoughtfully. "He's pretty ambitious for a painting, isn't he..."

OOOOOO

The tinkling in the background was disconcertingly cheerful, Timothy thought, as he watched Artemis out of the corner of his eye. Rolling around the floor behind Carrow's chair, she was currently wrestling her latest hemp ball that Carrow had, for some strange reason, decided to give sound effects.

Artemis absolutely loved it, considering the way she was currently back-pedalling it, proving yet again that domestic cats were just miniature tigers.

The room itself would have fitted quite nicely into the Lodge. It was almost as if Carrow had come to the conclusion that his home was a sort of bench mark of local normality, or maybe it was close enough to what he was used to that he could cope with it.

The large windows that gave an excellent view of part of the large and grandiose red-brick, classically detailed building of Aquila Industries that could only be a product of Carrow's unfathomable imagination. The board-room itself had suffered particularly from his attentions, lined with ionic columns that framed plate glass windows and "inspirational" paintings, topped with a ceiling that was a decorative plasterer's fever dream made flesh. There had been a small but viciously waged battle over the furnishings, which the Board had actually won, and so the long table and chairs were a modern design of mahogany, polished steel and leather, even Carrow's oversized chair, though somehow he'd managed to work skulls into its design. He suspected it wasn't quite what most people expected of a Board room.

"Absolutely _not,_ Allesandor. For the last time!" a sharp voice snapped out, dragging Timothy back into the current topic of discussion of this particular board meeting.

Maria Curtis stood, leaning on the table, tapping the slightly dog-eared folder of excruciatingly detailed plans. "Your plans for the Expo are completely unsuitable. I mean, gilded gothic style plinths for the display weapons, young ladies clad in _skin tight leather cat-suits_," she glared at the sulking man, "oh, and my personal favourite, skull topped niches containing images depicting the use of our weapons, _in the heroic style..._we do want to be invited back next year. You know, so we can win contracts as part of our long-term plan as a viable business," she said sarcastically.

Curtis was one of the few Board members he really saw eye to eye with, but she had a distressing tendency to give him odd looks and be over-inquisitive about his health (which was fine, thank you), and today she'd made a point of making sure there were sandwiches within his reach, as if he needed feeding up. What he really needed right now was a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

"But why?" Carrow burst out with a snarl. "We're an arms manufacturer. Of course we're glorifying war and violence. We want people to buy our weapons, don't we?"

Timothy sighed heavily, as the various members of the Board groaned quietly, and tried to refrain from banging their heads on the table. _Here we go again_, he thought with a heavy sigh. There was very little possibility that Carrow would ever really understand the explanation, being the living embodiment of a society that glorified war out of sheer survival. Pacifistic tendencies were probably suicidal in the Imperium of Man.

Getting Carrow to understand that it was possible, in this dark and ancient time, to abhor violence and not be an affront to humanity punishable by death, now _that_ was the trick.

"Roberts, if you would explain to Carrow why it would be detrimental to have niches topped with skulls..._please_," Curtis glared at the middle-aged and wiry man who was attempting to sink through the seat of his chair.

Pulling himself upright with a scowl, Roberts glanced around the table, seeing if anyone would come to his aid. "Right...well...the Expo has strict rules on the presentation of merchandise. We cannot be seen to be promoting or glorifying war or violence in anyway, at all. Working in this industry, wider society sees us as skirting the edge of morality as it is. We can't be seen to fall off that thin line into..." he gestured helplessly, "...an unethical morass of supplying and encouraging the violence...of warlords and terrorist groups and...and...rogue governments." He drew a steadying breath. "This industry is hard enough without attracting the censure of the UN. I wish to stay on the ethical side of the abyss as much as possible, please." He glared down the table at the slowly blinking Carrow. "So...your design is indeed very beautiful, if you like gold, but unfortunately it would push us over that edge to who knows where..."

"Exactly," Ms Curtis said from where she stood by the windows. "So in light of that, we called in a team of professional designers and they had a look over your...ideas," she moved back to the table, "and they came up with this." She placed a smart display folder on the table in front of Carrow.

The large man glared evilly at it, but Timothy eagerly pounced on the folder and started flicking through it, pausing every so often as he examined an artist's impression or a diagram. Finally, some sort of constructive resolution to all the stupid fighting and bickering was in sight...and it looked potentially like-well, he really wasn't an expert on these things, but he had a feeling it would look very slick and modern.

"This is excellent," Timothy said rather distractedly as he examined an explanation of a possible video display, reflexively pushing his tea-cup away from Artemis's questing nose, "very tasteful, and meets the Expo's rules, I take it..." He looked round the table questioningly.

"It does indeed," Dalziel nodded, arms crossed over his well suited middle-aged spread, "though it is a little more...flamboyant than the usual. Most people go for beige...or grey..."

Timothy nodded. "I think we should go for this. It's a good compromise, distinctive, but not too much so, displays the unique," he eyed Carrow, "flavour of the company."

Carrow glowered nastily.

"It's either this," Timothy snapped, "or a dingy grey cubicle. Make your mind up." He glared back at the giant, stubborn, bull-headed...

"Fine," Carrow snarled, slamming back in his chair, causing the poor piece of furniture to creak and groan in protest.

"So _finally_ we've decided on the designs for the Expo display stand." Dennis, who'd had the misfortune to have been delegated the task of minute keeping, sighed heavily as he tapped away at his beige slab of a laptop. "I just hope there's still enough time to get the thing built, and let's hope they don't bugger it up. We've only got four months left till the event."

"What if we get some of our magical employees from R&amp;D to build it?" Timothy suggested. "They could probably put the whole thing together in a matter of days."

Dennis shook his head. "I still can't get used to that," he sighed, "good idea, though. Are we going to include..." he looked back through his notes, "the video display...video displays?" He frowned, puzzled.

"Most definitely," Carrow said grandly, "we do want the brilliance of our Departmento Scientia to be broadcast to our potential clients, show them the best of our creations."

"Ah yes," Curtis said once she'd done a mental translation, "our potential upcoming products. You do realise we _are_ aware of all the little side-projects you commission R&amp;D to do for you, don't you?" She gave Franklin a glare, but he ignored her, stuffing an entire chocolate digestive into his mouth, chewing happily.

"The plasma rifles are coming along very nicely," Timothy commented off-handedly as he continued to look through the display folder, "Frank and his team have managed to solve the over-heating problem, so if they can give them a semi-auto, or preferably an automatic fire mode..." He looked around the table at the nervous expressions.

"This is exactly the sort of thing we mean," Roberts ran his fingers through his thinning hair, "that's scary technology we've got there, completely new, unique, never tried before in battle..."

Curtis meaningfully cleared her throat, glaring nastily between the increasingly smug Carrow, and Timothy who shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he slammed his expressionless mask in place.

Unfortunately, Roberts caught on. "There have been actual test firings..." he began slowly, "...wait, wait," his expression became increasingly alarmed, "there have been _field tests..._like actual _battlefield _tests?"

"Indeed," Carrow smiled like a shark, "though it was more of an ambush and skirmish in the end." He sighed happily as he ruffled Artemis's ears. "Despite the over-heating problem, the plasma rifles performed admirably, eliminating a T-54 tank and innumerable enemies of humanity,"

Curtis sighed in exasperation as the rest of the Board fell into appalled silence. Timothy tried hard not to laugh; it was times like this when he really appreciated his move to basically throw the Board to Carrow.

"I know you've been to Yugoslavia once," Curtis ground out, "but this seems to imply...multiple visits." She glared at Carrow, who stared back, completely unruffled. "You do understand that you are regarded as a civilian, regardless of _your_ feelings on it," she said at Carrow's dark scowl, "that there are serious repercussions to tampering with a warzone, not least _dying_, and that's before we get onto all the legal ramificati..."

Carrow held up a hand." I _am_ the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. I assure you any such actions on my part are legally sanctioned by both the British Magical Government, as well as...internationally."

Curtis looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. "Fine," she snapped, "so you have a leg to stand on, then. It doesn't change the fact that technically those guns are actually the property of Aquila Industries, as is the...shuttle craft," she grimaced, "and that...tank," she soldiered on ignoring Timothy's attempts at discrete and frantic hushing. "You'll have to pay for them, you know." She quirked an eyebrow at Carrow.

"What tank?" Dalziel asked incredulously from the other end of the table.

"_The_ tank," Franklin sighed. "This is why I'm here, isn't it? Anyway, you're all welcome to come and have a look at it if you like. It's like a tank designer's how-not-to-do-it manual. As for the aircraft," he rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin, "well, the Aviation Authorities took one look at it and refused us permission for flight tests." He shrugged, looking around, ignoring Carrow's dark muttering. "Any chance of some more biscuits?"

"So," Roberts said slowly, "if I understand the matter correctly, our R&amp;D department is spending its resources on a white elephant tank that will probably never see combat, and an aircraft that won't ever fly."

Timothy very nearly put his head in his hands and cried; talk about red rags to a bull he thought, as Carrow's chair shunted backwards, the man in question looming dangerously forward over the table, a furious snarl on his face, "the _Spear of Retribution_ will see combat," he snarled, "I swear it on my honour..."

Timothy chanced a glance down the table at the Board while Carrow got into full stride with his rant. Most were flinching back in their seats; only Franklin, used to the large man's temper, was enjoying the show, comfortably slouched in his seat with a smirk. "This doesn't change the fact that the shuttlecraft isn't going to fly. Shame really," he said conspiratorially across the table to Timothy, "I was looking forward to seeing if it really was space capable." He frowned thoughtfully. "How are you going to transport the tank, anyway?"

"Portkey," Timothy said, managing to pitch his voice over Carrow's ranting which appeared to be running out of steam, finally.

"Ah," Franklin nodded in understanding. "Are you going to eat those sandwiches?"

"No. No, not particularly. Feel free," Timothy pushed the untouched plate across the table, ignoring Curtis's disapproving glare.

"I'm taking it," Roberts said weakly, "getting back on topic, and all that, that the whole thing with the experimental energy weapons is why Maria," he nodded towards his colleague, "initiated the four hourly inventory checks on our arms stockpile, all of it, including the R&amp;D's stores, which includes...a rail gun? Really?"

"That's currently on top of the tank, it's kind of hard to misplace," Franklin said helpfully around a mouthful of cheese and pickle sandwich, "works a treat too," he grinned, "we're _decades_ ahead of the Americans. Haven't you lot read about all this in my reports?"

Timothy discretely coughed and twitched his pen towards Carrow. Franklin looked puzzled a moment, before understanding dawned. "Ah, the mushroom farming approach," he grinned. Timothy tried hard to smother his laughter.

Curtis glared furiously at them both, before turning back to Carrow. "Next time you decide to _borrow_ some guns for a little trip, ask permission first. The last thing we need is Aquila Industries technology being used in unauthorized personal campaigns. I wouldn't be surprised if the "permission" you get is sometimes rather retroactive." She smirked at Carrow's slightly furtive look. "What's next on the agenda?"

"The anti-war protestors," Roberts said, with a long suffering sigh. "Mr Carrow, could you _please_ stop harassing them. The Head of Security keeps complaining to me because the Police keep asking him and his staff awkward questions...we _know_ it's you," he said at Carrow's sullen glare. "Which brings us to, oh yes... why the _hell_ do we have a small team of _gilders_ on permanent staff?" Roberts looked up from his copy of the agenda with an incredulous look.

Carrow's glower deepened.

Timothy continued his aimless doodling around the edge of his notes. There was no way he was getting involved in any discussion of the gilders, despite Franklin glaring and hissing at him. Franklin broke first. "They're there to gild the tank," he said with an air of long suffering.

"Exactly," Carrow said as if it were entirely obvious, "the _Spear of Retribution_ must be livered suitable for one of my station. She needs to be awe-inspiring, a veritable avatar of war, magnificent and terrible," he finished with a frown, "I would have thought this was obvious."

The awful thing was Timothy knew he was utterly serious, and so the one-of-a-kind (and utterly hideous) tank was currently being tarted up to the nines with inspirational texts and images, and Carrow's personal heraldry gilded over the black Carrow had insisted on painting her (which had caused yet another set of arguments with the R&amp;D people). The effect was...startling. Timothy had a nasty little feeling that the Spear of Retribution might very well succeed, just because people wouldn't believe their eyes until it was far too late.

"It's _my_ tank," Carrow growled sullenly in the background. Timothy sighed, feeling as if the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. And to add to his worries, Carrow was increasingly getting that little gleam in his eyes, a hint of up-to-no-good, which promised nothing but trouble in the near future. Could he head it off before Carrow did something truly awful?

"We're prepared to negotiate over the cost of the shuttle-craft. I understand that's the one that concerns you all the most, since it seems to be currently permanently grounded," Timothy looked around at the Board, "but please, just let him have the tank," he pleaded, "it's like his baby. I'm not asking for a decision right now," he said as the Board began to mutter and grumble, "but please consider it. It may very well make life easier down the line." He gave Carrow a sideways glare.

"Right," Dalziel grimaced flicking through the agenda. "What's next...ah yes, the other reason why _you're_ here, Franklin. Looking over the energy usage of your department, the accountants have found a very curious discrepancy. Compared to last quarter, your energy consumption has dropped by a very dramatic 80% with no apparent reason. Care to explain?" He looked severely at the other man who had paused mid-chew.

"Oh that," Franklin said finishing off his sandwich, "that's not a problem. Nearly a year ago now, I think, we received the most exciting plans for a pocket fusion reactor from Mr Carrow's Swiss friend. So some of the guys...and gals, got together and built a working prototype. We've been running the coffee machine off it ever since. And since it proved so reliable and everything, we went ahead and built the full-scale reactor. We've been running all the day-to-day stuff off it for, oh...the last four months or so, I think. We've built nearly a dozen more since for various things. They've been so good, we've been scaling up the original designs to build an even larger one that we can dedicate to running the really power hungry experimental stuff we've been working on." He looked round with a huge grin. "It's really exciting stuff combining physics with arithmancy. I don't understand the magical side at all, and I barely comprehend the way it reacts and interacts with the things I _do_ understand. We're going to be starting a whole new series of research projects soon, just to try and gain some idea of what's going on. I haven't been this excited since I...well...the potential applications...it's _amazing_!" He sighed happily.

Roberts stared in horror. "We've got multiple nuclear reactors...on site," he whispered, "oh _hell_."


	7. Chapter 7

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

_I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

**Author's note**

Here it finally is, Chapter 7, despite the Xmas retail rush, yet another cold courtesy of the lack of heating at work, and finally my elderly netbook developing a nasty case of senility at the nth hour. The keyboard died, so when I tried typing anything I got completely random (sometimes multiple) letters, numbers and actions.

It was with much sadness that I went and bought a shiny new laptop. I'm still getting used to typing on a much larger keyboard, hopefully I find all the typos but feel free to point out any I missed, it's always appreciated. And of course Windows 8, I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, I really miss the normal start menu and the whole pseudo tablet interface is really irritating to wade through. I suppose it will improve after I've got rid of all the pre-loaded junk.

Anyway, thank-you all for being so patient and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

The ladder just seemed to get steeper and steeper, Moody grumbled as he made his way down into the trunk room, swearing and cursing under his breath. When this whole blasted mess was finally done and dusted, he was getting rid of this blasted piece of luggage and getting something nice and relatively normal. Maybe he'd treat himself and burn this one, fiendfyre perhaps. That would get rid of the stench of the evil little golem bastard and his nasty box. Nodding sharply in satisfaction, he went about his morning routine, tending to the Cabbage's needs, such as they were.

And now for the Dark Lord.

He carefully pulled back the bundle of blankets, and lifted the repulsive little creature from his cot, trying to ignore its weak struggles as it made its objections to being disturbed known. Moody swallowed back his own revulsion; the Mission came first.

The Dark Lord, once carefully installed in his high chair, was eating porridge from an adorable blue bunny bowl with matching spoon (truly Barty had gone out of his way to provide for his Master), while Moody mixed his "Master's" morning medicine, a vile concoction of snake's venom and human blood, in his sippy cup. Moody frowned at the silence; normally the little monster grumbled and snarled the entire time, whinging about the latest book and demanding more. He turned to find Voldemort listlessly spooning his porridge, watching the sludgy mixture slide off the spoon back into the bowl.

"My Lord," he growled, "your morning...pick-me-up." He presented the sippy cup with a stiff bow.

Voldemort glared at the two-handled plastic cup, his red eyes dark and hopeless, accepting it with minimal fuss. Moody frowned in concern; what was up with the murderous little bastard?

"I have a task for you," the Dark Lord croaked after a few sips of his medicine, sifting around in the detritus of discarded parchment, newspapers and books that had accumulated on and around the high chair. "Here," he said, pulling a slightly ragged piece of parchment from under a small stack of books the top one titled _Reconstructed Ancient Egyptian Rituals._ "I need you to gather these ingredients and materials together. Store them at the house in preparation for our...guest."

Moody took the list with a frown, examining it carefully. Industrial sized cauldron, a number of ingredients that he knew for a fact were illegal, possession being punishable by at least five years in Azkaban. The others he wasn't sure about. Best ask Severus, the lad really knew his stuff when it came to potions.

"Get close to him, make _friends_, gain his trust. These Ministry stooges are all the same, weak and gullible, so you shouldn't have any difficulties there," Voldemort continued with a sneer twisting his already ugly features. "Under cover of the Tournament you'll be easily able to kidnap him, my...mortal enemy. I'll tell you when," he glared into the distance, stabbing fitfully at his congealing porridge.

"And port-key him to...Riddle Manor, my Lord?" Moody suggested warily.

Voldemort turned on him with a snarl, throwing his adorable bunny spoon across the small room as hard as he could. It bounced off the wall just above the Cabbage's head, landing on his thin pillow. "Don't think," he screamed, "just _do! _The sooner I'm out of this damnable body, the better. Now get out of my sight!"

Moody glared at the evil ungrateful little creature, which now sat panting, eyes bulging in the high chair. "Here are your papers, _my Lord_." He dumped the morning's newspapers on the high chair tray, the latest novel hidden amongst the _Daily Prophet_, the _Times_ and the _Quibbler_, quickly snatching his hand back before the vicious thing could give him a new set of gashes.

Snarling softly to himself, he retreated up the ladder as he could, leaving behind the frustrated Dark Lord, and closing the trunk with a soft and satisfying clunk.

"I am taking it that _he_ was in fine fettle this morning?" Severus's dark baritone drifted over from the shadows by the door.

"Indeed, lad," Moody growled, "and he gave me this." He pulled the parchment from an inner pocket, handing it over. "If that's bruise balm, then I'm a puffskein."

Severus examined the list with a raised eyebrow. "Some sort of base...for stability and rejuvenation, I suspect, but with a twist- not exactly a common mixture."

Moody took in his expression with concern. "So what are we looking at?" he asked.

Severus gazed into the distance with a thoughtful frown. "If I were to hazard a guess," he said slowly, "it bears some sort of relation to the bases used in the making of some high-end healing philtres..._False Phoenix Tears_ for example...a very complex concoction, even I would struggle to brew. Frankly, it's simpler to just find a Phoenix...I'll have to do a little research just to be sure."

Moody nodded with a scowl. "You know what this means?" Severus handed over his morning's doses of nutrient supplements, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Reports," Moody snarled in disgust," I'm going to have to write another damn report, in bloody triplicate."

Severus smirked. "Ah yes, just think of the labyrinthine bureaucracy that you're contributing to." He opened the office door onto a small sea of impatiently waiting students, all clad in camo, dripping with equipment for who knew what, with sludge green smeared on their cheeks.

"Good morning to you all," Severus smirked at them, gleefully thinking of how it was currently snowing rather heavily and how he wasn't going to be joining them.

"Good morning Professor," they chorused back. "Sir," Colin Creevey said, bouncing enthusiastically, "is Professor Moody nearly ready? We're all ready to go!"

Snape grinned, hearing the infuriated growling behind him. "I'm sure he'll be with you any moment now."

OOOOOO

It wasn't quite up to the standards of the Hogwarts trees that he remembered, but he'd done his best. The dark bulk of the tree had intimidated him at first, feeling like an ominous pit in the lightness of the living room, so he'd coated it in fake snow and wrapped it in tinsel and decorated it with baubles and fairy lights until it sparkled and shimmered, a vision of everything festive in gold and silver.

It looked so beautiful, and now on Christmas morning there were presents tucked underneath in their bright paper and ribbons and bows and…presents, he'd got presents…presents…PRESENTS!

He bounced around Mooney as he walked into the room a mug in each hand. PRESENTS! PRESENTS! He barked madly as he ran round and round, jumping excitedly, chasing his own tail as the thrill of his first Christmas after Azkaban overwhelmed him.

"Sirius…SIRIUS…if you don't stop right now," Remus shouted, "Merlin help me, I'll hex you on the nose!"

Sirius stopped in surprise, he'd gone dog? He hadn't even noticed, he'd just been so…so ecstatic. Changing, he grinned up at his best friend. "Look," he waved his arms excitedly, "presents!"

Remus actually smiled slightly. "It is Christmas after all; breakfast first, though!"

"Aww," Sirius whined, giving the presents a longing look.

Five minutes later, swallowing a mouthful of crumpet, he eyed Remus speculatively from where he sat on the floor. "Presents now?" he asked.

Remus rolled his eyes. "Honestly, you're like a big kid!" He looked down at Sirius's hopeful grin. "Go on then," he sighed.

Cheering, Sirius dived for the tree, Remus shaking his head in exasperation as his friend scrabbled happily through the gifts. To his surprise Sirius trotted back with a squashy parcel badly wrapped in gaudy animated paper. "This is from me to you," Sirius grinned, thrusting it towards him.

Remus eyed it suspiciously, long experience insisting he check for pranks first. What the heck, he thought, and tore into the paper to reveal a rather nice casual robe in a mid-blue. "Oh," he exclaimed in mild surprise, "wow…thank-you," he smiled at the anxious dog-man.

Sirius beamed in delight.

"Aren't you going to open one of yours now?" Remus asked, admiring his gift, "This will go rather nicely with those new cords I got."

Sitting in a nest of shredded wrapping paper and gifts, Sirius tore the paper off one that the tag had proclaimed was from _Gred and Forge_. He'd had quite a good haul so far, a monster book of muggle jokes and a really gaudy festive jumper (which he was currently wearing) from Moony, a huge tin of sweets and a motorbike calendar from cousin Andie, Narcissa to his complete surprise had sent him a really nice cashmere scarf, and there was even a Honeydukes selection from Dumbledore. Hopefully the old man would enjoy the selection box of muggle sweets he'd got him; he'd had so much fun putting it together. So what had the terrible twins got him? Ah ha, a turkey…no, no it was a hat that _looked_ like a turkey. Brilliant! He gleefully pulled it on, ignoring stick-in-the-mud-Mooney shaking his head in exasperation.

"That's it isn't it?" Sirius looked around in disappointment. Presents never lasted long enough.

Remus looked distractedly from his new book, something long and boring with no pictures at all. Sirius shook his head with a sad sigh, he seriously needed to take Moony in hand and re-educate him in the meaning of _fun_. "What about those ones over there? I had to shove that big one against the wall, there was hardly any room…" he drifted back into his book.

Sirius gave a disgusted snort, before going to investigate. The big one looked like a painting or something and it was for him, but the others…ooh, a small one for him, sort of a box thingie, and then what looked suspiciously like a book for Moony. He sidled over to Remus who had now curled up on the sofa with that boring history book, oblivious to all around him; now how to give it to him?

Grinning like a loon, he dipped his head down to the level of Remus's ear, and still the crazy book-worm didn't react. "MOONY!" he bellowed.

Sirius watched, laughing, as Remus nearly jerked out of his seat, juggling his new book frantically. "What?" Remus snarled.

Trying to look as innocent as possible, Sirius waved the gift at him, "present," he grinned.

Remus huffed in annoyance, taking the proffered parcel with a small huff. "You do realise these are the ones from Allesandor, don't you?"

Sirius paused. "So open with extreme caution and a broad-mind, yeah?"

Maybe he needed to redefine what he meant by broad-minded. Sirius stared in fascinated disgust at what was unmistakably a wizened human hand; it had part of a finger missing…and it was on a stick, an expensive walnut stick…with a brass plaque. He tilted his head to read the neat little inscription…_Peter Pettigrew-his hand…_

Sirius stared at the disgusting thing in shock, his godson had sent him part of his mortal enemy as a gift, but wasn't the Rat in Azkaban? So how had…his mind reeled at the implications. There were things about Allesandor Carrow he really just didn't want to know.

"Remus," he squeaked holding up the gruesome object, "look!"

Sighing, Remus looked up from yet _another_ book, blinked in surprise and then stared. "What in Merlin's name is _that_?!" he exclaimed.

Waving the trophy around, Sirius considered the matter, maybe…"It's a Peter Pettigrew back-scratcher," he decided demonstrating its use, accidently knocking his turkey hat askew. Actually it was rather good; showed the Rat was useful for something after all.

"That is absolutely disgusting," Remus said flatly.

Sirius shrugged. "It's Allesandor." Come to think of it, if this is what he did with the Rat's hand, what had he done with the rest of him? Actually, come to think of it, that was somewhere he wasn't sure he wanted to stray.

"And how the hell did he get his hands on Pettigrew in the first…scratch that," Remus sighed, "I'm not sure I want to know."

"My thoughts exactly," Sirius muttered, looking at the wizened thing. His mum was going to love this.

"There's still that big one left," Remus pointed out.

Sirius looked at the large gift warily. "It's from _him_…if he sent me this, well…I'm not sure I want to touch it…you'll unwrap it for me won't you, Moony?" He fluttered his eyelashes at his grumbling friend.

"Fine, fine," Remus muttered as he stomped past, stepping carefully over the wrapping-paper nest. "Are you sure about this?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Totally," Sirius said, as he hunkered down further behind his makeshift barricade of wrapping-paper and sweet wrappers.

"Fine," Remus snapped, tearing a huge strip of paper off the thing. As if a spell had broken, a huge wall of sound hit them, the clash of weapons, shouts and screams, and above them all a deep and resonate voice proclaiming in something that sounded rather like Latin.

"And where am I supposed to put that?" Sirius complained, staring at the very _Allesandor_ picture. Blast it, he was going to have to put the thing somewhere nice and obvious for when the monster visited. Argh, _more_ problems.

Remus actually looked sympathetic, unlike when he ate that entire tin of golden syrup and ended up with stomach ache. "Why don't we sort that out tomorrow? We've got the Yule Ball later."

"Hogwarts…party…food," Sirius sighed happily.

"Isn't Allesandor going to be there?" Remus said. "He's acting as the official Ministry representative, isn't he?"

Oh Merlin, he hadn't thought of that. Sirius slumped despondently into the pile of discarded wrapping paper; and didn't that just put a dampener on the day? He whimpered slightly, the giant git had been practically stalking him for the last month trying to persuade him to go to his New Year's party; Allesandor being at the Yule Ball would result in being completely at his mercy, unable to escape. What if he agreed just to get rid of the giant nuisance? And then he'd be expected to attend…and he was still having nightmares about the last one, which was a nightmare in and of itself.

He needed something to distract himself from all this…_Carrow-ness_, sweets…no Remus the miserable old man had rationed him to only _one_ chocolate bar or pack of sweets a day, the miserable meanie…the back scratcher…errr….just no…the painting…maybe…

Remus was far too deeply involved in his books to be taking the slightest bit of notice, which was good. So where would he put it? A sudden wonderful idea occurred to him…

"What are you up to?" Remus's voice drifted after him as he carefully floated his new painting out into the entrance hall. Oh this was going to be fun, he thought as he stuck the large, framed canvas up on the wall, talk about killing two birds with one stone.

Predictably the curtains on his mother's portrait pulled back, "STAIN ON THE FAMILY HONOUR, MY ETERNAL SHAME, HOW DARE YOU…WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU BABEROUS LITTLE…oh…"

Sirius turned in surprise, what the heck!

His mother was leaning forward in her frame eagerly examining the newcomer. Never in all the time he'd know her, living or dead, had he ever seen her with such a strange expression on her face. He turned to look again at his God-son's gift, the large and armoured figure was oddly bare-headed revealing his chiselled and stern features as he flung balls of fire and other stranger magics at the hordes of gun wielding soldiers. He couldn't help but notice most of them had some sort of disfigurements…actually he really didn't want to look too closely.

"Isn't he handsome," Mother exclaimed with a weird expression on her face.

Sirius stared in disbelieve, was she…smiling?

oOo

The night was clear, the sky full of stars, scattered liked gems on velvet, the candles of the Great Hall hovering below mirroring their brilliance. And there he was coming over poetical. It must be the stress, Dumbledore sighed to himself. Smiling politely he gazed around smiling at the numerous guests that Hogwarts was currently hosting at this, the Yule Ball. Ah, for the Tri-Wizard tournament to be finally over, so he could get back to more important things like running Hogwarts and catching the miscreants who had managed to so pollute poor Binns' office with such dangerous magic that he'd had to request the Castle to permanently seal the room.

He had a feeling he knew who; he eyed the ring-leaders of the Defence Club, who were having an animated discussion with several members of Allesandor's entourage, at least one of whom was a vampire. It could be any of them really, but his money was on Miss Granger; she had the determination and just enough knowledge to put herself and her friends into extreme danger with only minimal effort.

And then, of course, there was the ever present menace of darling Allesandor as he went through the Ministry like a deranged chimera. Dumbledore turned slightly in his seat to take in the extraordinary appearance of the large man as he whirled Madam Maxime round the dance floor. He had a suspicion that Allesandor must design his own clothes, hence the bewildering cloth-of-gold robe with hanging sleeves, with its black and gold brocade lining, its collar encrusted with gold-work and gems that trailed down the back and the front. That he had decided to accessorise this...garment with a leather skin-tight suit, a necklace of shrunken and decorated skulls, and that overly mobile chain seemed rather incidental. It had certainly garnered startled stares from some of the visiting students.

It appeared that young Allesandor had ducked out of the dancing for a moment, and was now deep in conversation with Madam Bones, one of his most ardent supporters within the Ministry. Heaven help him with the fall-out of whatever it was they were plotting this time.

And of course Allesandor had insisted on bringing his pet tiger with him, so now she was roaming freely among the guests along with that little vampire who never seemed quite right. Natasha...that was her name. Yes, he'd already seen Timothy giving her a blood-pop.

There were times over the last year or two when he'd had cause to compare notes with the portraits of previous incumbents in his office. They were surprisingly sympathetic on occasion. Ah yes, it would be such a relief when all this international cooperation was over...oh dear, and they still had Allesandor's presentation of his "little" gift to the school to survive too.

oOo

It was really quite puzzling why Headmistress Maxime kept blinking at him like that. Did she have something in her eye? Did she need the attentions of an Apothecarian? Terribly puzzling, and why did she keep insisting on dancing with him? He had a suspicion that mentioning any of this to her would earn him multiple sarcastic remarks from Timothy, and that was always a clear sign that he'd committed some socially unacceptable act.

He smiled politely as Madam Maxime regaled him with tales of the beauty of her school. It was at times like this that he deeply missed the certainty of the Imperium of Man. He knew exactly where he stood, mainly at the top, and God-Emperor guide his hands, that's exactly where he was going to end up here too. And when he did, he was going to do something about the current unacceptable quality of the music; he glared at the band, causing the bassist to falter momentarily.

He bowed politely to the lady, and yet again made his excuses, slipping through the crowd like a hot knife through fat in search of his elusive prey. There were certain advantages to the extra height his glorious ascendance to the Astartes had granted him, and an excellent view in a crowd of meat-sacks was one of them. _There _he was, lurking by the buffet table.

His eyes fixed on his target, Carrow strode over, his robes billowing magnificently around him.

"Ah, God-Father, Mr Black," Carrow smiled down at the smaller man as he tried as he tried to sidle behind the nearest person. "And Potions Master Snape," Carrow inclined his head politely.

Snape smirked up at him. "Enjoying the party? A little pedestrian, I will admit, but the punch is rather good," he gestured with his half empty glass, "I've already stopped the Weasley Twins from spiking it twice, and some idiot Hufflepuff. Looks like I'm going to have ample assistance for gutting that barrel of flobber-worms later."

"Of course," Carrow nodded in understanding, "'tis better to learn through doing." He paused, watching his target try and make a break for it. "God-Father, have you considered my invitation yet? It would be a terrible shame if you missed my New Year's party! You're family after all."

Sirius Black inched further along the wall, a sickly smile on his pale face. "That's...really nice of you, but erm..." he looked around frantically, "oh look, Remus is calling me. Got to go!" He disappeared, leaving Carrow standing next to a gently shaking Snape.

"Oh dear," Snape wiped away a tear of laughter, "I wonder why he's so reluctant? He's normally such a party animal; maybe he's just...shy of you."

Black's behaviour was rather odd, Carrow had to admit. Yes, his accidental attendance at last year's event had been rather unfortunate, but this was a golden opportunity to make restitution and bring them closer together. Maybe he should get Timothy to arrange things instead; he glanced over to where his secretary, looking very smart in black and gold braid (though they'd had a bit of an argument over the fur lined cloak; Carrow had won, of course) was deep in conversation with his other apprentice, young Miss Granger, and her friends.

Headmistress Maxime whirled him away onto the dance floor again with such enthusiasm, that even he was left a little disconcerted, Snape giving him a little wave as he sniggered at his discomfort. _Why was this lady so fixated on him?_ he thought as he carefully removed her hand from his bottom; there were numerous other options for dance partners currently available, and if she wished for someone of a similar height, then Rubeus Hagrid was a much a better choice. Yet another one of life's little mysteries.

Maybe it was time he should present his gift; he had to admit he was rather looking forward to this; he'd worked very hard on what was probably the largest construct he'd made to date. Excusing himself from the dancing, he made his way over to Headmaster Dumbledore, ignoring his God-father as he hid behind a pillar. He could always find him later.

"Is it that time all ready?" Dumbledore asked, looking slightly resigned.

Carrow tilted his head slightly; he didn't really understand the man's reluctance but he wasn't letting that get in the way. "Of course, Headmaster Dumbledore."

Out in the Entrance Hall stood the gift, its impressive bulk hidden by dust-sheets. Carrow smirked to himself as the students and assorted guests gathered round to watch the grand unveiling, their expressions conveying everything from curiosity to apprehension.

His smile broadening, Carrow cleared his throat. "If I can have your attention," he said, unnecessarily, "I would like to present this small token of my esteem to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to show my appreciation of everything this fine educational establishment does to prepare our children to undertake their adult duties." With a flourish, he removed the dust-sheets, looking round expectantly at the sea of silent faces.

A few tentative claps began, Carrow's smirk broadening as it reached a small crescendo before petering away. "I do believe it will be eleven o'clock soon," Carrow said.

Timothy cast a tempus charm, his face an unreadable mask. "Indeed it will, sir."

Carrow smirked happily, now to see his creation in action. He stood back to view the monumental pillar of a clock better. He'd had the privilege of seeing a few such pieces on his travel, but he'd always been slightly disappointed with them, the artisans never quite pulling the combination of time-keeping and amusing animatronics together satisfactorily.

So now he had had the opportunity, he had made this glorious clock, putting together everything he really liked into one object, the niches of its eight sides filled with inspirational figures for the young and impressionable, and of course when it chimed...

...the figures whirred into action, waving their weapons threateningly, firing plasma rifles with tiny flashes of light, attacking one another releasing sprays of phantasmal blood that faded slowly as it trickled down the clock. The scene just below the clock-faces whirred into action as miniature Astartes tackled their green-skin foes, beheading them, the heads rolling down and around the clock before striking the bell...

"CLANG...CLANG...CLANG..."

Carrow nodded happily as the clock struck eleven; it had taken much hard work and consideration to calibrate that bell to be as audible as possible. Yes, he thought with a satisfied sigh, it really was his best work to date.

OOOOOO

The observers and the weapons specialists were busily talking among themselves, but the Suits in dark glasses were staring at him again. Apparently something about the slagged and melted remains of the T-54 at the ambush site had them spooked and now they were staring or muttering between themselves, sometimes while staring, Matthew shifted uncomfortably. Worse, the Red Beret who was in charge had failed to mention who they were and who they worked for...just like that Mr Wigglesworth who had actually introduced himself. He looked sideways at the odd man with his tweedy suit, kipper tie, brogues and luxuriant mutton-chop side-burns. If he wasn't a wizard then Matthew would eat his boots, with ketchup.

The APC ground to a halt. "Ah, finally, we're here," Mr Wigglesworth smiled round the compartment of grim faced people, "nothing like a little jaunt in the morning."

Matthew groaned inwardly; _definitely_ a wizard.

As they disembarked, Matthew's mood sunk even further as he set eyes on the very last place he ever wanted to return to in his entire life.

The scorched shells of buildings rose up on either side of the road, their windows empty and bleak in the grey winter light. Burnt debris poked out of doorways where roofs had collapsed inwards, rubble strewn across the road in blackened drifts, and there, lying in the middle of the road, the twisted and broken remains of a child, burnt beyond recognition.

Matthew swallowed back bile; he'd seen death in so many forms but children...that was always hard. The memories of that night came crashing back, the strange child, seemingly lost. Fitch's scream...men shouldn't ever scream like that...and then he'd shot the vile thing over and over again until it was almost cut in half. The guys had had to drag him away, but when they'd seen it, _really looked, _they'd understood his reaction completely.

"...this was where you entered the town of Među Brdima?"

Matthew jerked out of his memories, cold sweat trickling down his spine. Swallowing, he nodded. "Yes...yes this is it. That's the _thing_ that bit Fitch." He sidled round it, reluctant to take his eyes off it, wishing he'd got a gun; heck, a knife would do at a pinch. It was just too quiet around here, unnaturally so, he thought as he strained his ears; no bird-song even.

"Oh my," Mr Wigglesworth murmured as he crouched next to the mangled remains. Daylight had revealed his tweedy suit to be a rather unpleasant mustard colour, his kipper tie brown and green. It made him look like a lecturer that had wandered out of a 1970's polytechnic one day. Using his foot, Mr Wigglesworth turned the upper torso over, revealing the distorted skull, its jaws filled with rows of shark-like teeth. "You were very lucky," he said, looking up at Matthew, eyes serious behind his heavy glasses.

The creepy people in dark glasses gave each other inscrutable looks, sidling over to the remains while the Red Beret's back was turned, pulling out a couple of odd instruments and a camera. Matthew ignored them, the sooner this whole miserable experience was over the better. The further he walked into the town, the worse it became, the buildings increasingly decrepit, the fire-damage more intense.

The landmarks he vaguely remembered from that harrowing night lay broken, buried under rubble. He turned on the spot at a cross roads, trying to ignore the intense scrutiny he was under; had they turned right or gone straight on? Oh look, the remains of that public drinking fountain. Its cast iron was cracked by the heat but its shell shape was still highly distinctive, very nineteenth century. Yes, they'd gone right here.

He clambered over a pile of bricks strewn across the road where a building had collapsed under its own weight, his guard closely following. Going around another corner revealed an abrupt narrowing of the road; that had been interesting to get past. Looking at it in daylight, he was actually quite surprised they'd managed to get the APC up here at all.

Past a little square with the war torn and very clogged remains of an ornamental fountain, and to the right. He finally saw it, the town square, the scene of the most disturbing fight of his career, and he still had the feeling that for the giant lunatic it ranked as a rather minor skirmish.

"This is it," he whispered as he came to a halt. The Red Beret gave him a dubious look before ushering him forward.

Matthew went reluctantly. His memories of that night were patchy at best, blurred by the adrenalin and the frantic fighting and the worrying whether he'd led his lads into a death trap. It was all a blur of screaming, shouting and shooting with the monster that was Carrow wading through a sea of bodies laughing as he slaughtered, like some dreadful avatar of war. Had his mind been playing tricks on him? What if it turned out he'd imagined the whole thing?

Something nudged his foot, and he looked down to find a skull leering back at him, its left hand side twisted and warped until it formed a horn, rough with blisters of bone. His breath hitched and sped up as the terrible sense-memory of rot and burning flesh hit him like a wrecking ball, not really noticing as the experts walked past him into the square.

"Oh Merlin," Mr Wigglesworth breathed, seemingly dazed by what he was seeing. Matthew could almost forgive him for the offensive tie.

He vaguely noticed as he looked around a rough rectangle of clear space where the APC had stood that night. Around it, the twisted and warped bodies lay nearly shin deep, in places forming obscene drifts of tangled and distorted limbs. And snaking through it all lay the remains of the monstrous worm that Carrow had slain, a serpentine mound of the dead over six feet high in places, tangles of limbs and bodies crushed together, the agony of their deaths still clear in their twisted and corrupt forms.

How the _hell_ had they survived this? It was nothing short of miraculous that the worst that had happened was Fitch being bitten.

"Bloody buggering _fuck_," the Red Beret exclaimed loudly.

"Couldn't have put better myself," Matthew muttered.

OOOOOO

Thankfully, Artemis had retired to a quieter, little boy free area of the house. She had put up with the tail pulling and prodding with surprising grace for nearly an hour before shaking them off and just leaving. Timothy had left her to it, just thankful she hadn't bitten either Felix or one of his shockingly active friends, all of them over-excited about sleeping over night in a _real _castle.

And had Carrow actually been of any assistance in rounding up the quartet of horrors? Oh no, he'd merely watched from the sidelines with a smirk as the little darlings jumped on the furniture, nearly giving Bernard the English Heritage man a heart-attack, and turned brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed into a task almost as difficult as climbing Mount Everest without oxygen tanks.

Timothy slumped back in his office chair, staring up at the putti who were snoozing together in a heap on the top of the cornice, little fluffy wings wrapped around themselves, their ribbons dangling down. Finally, he could actually get some work done, he sighed as he pulled up the minutes for the Yule Wizengamot meeting on the computer. Carrow had finally allowed the _Right of Inheritance_ bill to pass through, so it should only be a matter of months now before it would actually become law.

"Sir, would you like a cup of coffee?"

Timothy looked up to find young Weasley watching him in concern. "Yes please, Percy," he smiled tiredly at his underling, "that would be wonderful." He returned to the minutes looking for any hidden surprises. Thanks to Carrow, there were very few objections to the Rights Bill; even Gringotts were on board with it all, which left idle speculation as to who would actually occupy the Lestrange seat, for example...which had started a massive row between Parkinson and old Barnabas Bent. They were both most probably out of luck. Carrow had arranged things so that no new members would hold multiple seats, and that was also Gringotts' verdict on the member's genealogy was final. Oh, the kneazles that were going to be put among the puffskeins...

"Sir," Percy said by his shoulder.

Timothy snapped out of his thoughts giving the minutes another glance, to find a steaming mug of coffee, and Percy had even thoughtfully put a couple of chocolate biscuits on a plate for him. He gave his secretary an appreciative smile, and to think Weasley nearly ended up working in the Department for International Cooperation with that annoying stiff-arse Crouch. He'd have been utterly wasted there.

"Have all the financial files for next Tuesday's meeting with the Aquila board been prepared?" Timothy asked as he sipped his coffee. "I have a feeling I should go over them one more time before Ms Curtis gets her claws into me."

"Yes sir," Percy trilled as he typed, "the fat blue folder in your in-tray right now."

Timothy grinned to himself as he pulled it out and had a cursory flick through. Right, next little job...but blasted minutes first...

The phone rang just as he was getting to the long-winded and very argument about grazing rights on communal meadows in a Wizarding village he'd never heard of somewhere in the wilds of Kent.

"Faulks," he snapped as he scrolled down past an account of a brawl about goats, vital no doubt to the life of the village, but why was the Wizengamot debating it?

"Ah, Timothy," a relieved voice said at the other end of the line, "it's Clarissa. The Aurors have sent us a Code Aubergine in Knockturn Alley. They're asking for you."

Timothy leapt out of his chair, nearly knocking his coffee flying at the office manager's words. "Thanks, Clarissa," he said hurriedly, "I'll be as quick as I can." He slammed the receiver down dodging round his desk. "Percy, call Rita," he snapped as he dived for the internal phone, speed-dialling the Barracks as everyone had started calling them.

A sleepy Chuddy answered.

"We're on," Timothy snarled, "Code Aubergine, be ready in five."

"Yes sir," Chuddy smartly answered suddenly sounding very awake.

oOo

They arrived at the DMLE to find it swarming like a kicked-over ant-hill, Auror Hewitt waiting for them with a glare. He glared at Timothy, sneering at his great coat and obvious sword, before scowling suspiciously at Chuddy and Juno, his brows knotting together suspiciously as he took in their muggle attire and weapons. With a disgusted snort, he whirled round and stalked off. "Follow me" he snapped over his shoulder, "we're briefing right now."

The briefing room was crowded with nervous Aurors, fuelled by coffee and their own adrenaline, Timothy and his little team a literal dark mark amongst the Auror red. A passing civilian member of staff pushed a rope ring into his hands. A port-key already to go, Timothy thought; this was a far-cry from the DMLE he'd come to know and love. Maybe Carrow was good for something after all.

"Now we are all here," the Head Auror called, silencing the nervous chatter as she strode across the low platform to stand in front of the map of the Knockturn Alley area pinned to the wall, glaring severely.

"Briefing, Wednesday 7th December 1994, eleven hours and thirty five minutes of the clock. Operation Wormwood. Tonight at approximately eleven hours and fifteen minutes of the clock, Number 13, Sinister Alley, a cheap boarding house , was invaded by a group of individuals intent on the subduing and possible kidnapping of young women for purposes unknown.

"The Auror Department was alerted and responded as quickly as possible with two squads in place, in front and back of the building," the Head Auror pointed to the relevant positions on the map, "anti-apparition and port-key wards have already been put in place and so we are currently in a stand-off with the would be kidnappers. Nothing going in and _nothing_ coming out," she stood legs astride, arms folded over her chest, carefully examining the occupants of the room, "Auror Macey...you and your team will take the front ground floor entrance, while Auror Hewitt and his team will enter through the back ground floor entrance...

"...and last but most definitely not least..._Interrogator _Faulks..."

Timothy twitched at the sound of his name, an icy sensation crawling down his back. Only Carrow called him Interrogator, what was going on?

"...and his team will be entering through_ this_ side window on the fourth floor."

To Timothy's fascination the map display had changed to a projection of the street, the Head Auror pointing to a small sash window high above the back courtyard. He carefully examined the projection, looked like they were going to have to scramble across the roof-tops to get to it...in the dark...with potential angry magical firing curses at them if they were really unlucky. Oh, he really knew how to have fun...but what the hell. He gave the Head Auror a firm nod which she returned.

"Right," she returned the image back to the street map with a flick of her wand, "supporting teams are here and here and observers have been posted in these buildings here, here and here. Any questions? No? Good," she said firmly, "port-keys are set to go off in..." she quickly cast a tempus charm, "twenty five seconds. Get ready."

oOo

The slates were rather slippery thanks to the recent rain and their ancient, poorly maintained surface, moss growing in cracks and crevices, spotted with luminous lichens, were causing his boots- normally very good on treacherous surfaces- to struggle. One slip, and he had the delightful possibility of falling five stories on to the cobbled yard below. He couldn't even use a sticking charm to help alleviate his predicament. The Head Auror had banned him and his team from any spell-casting, until they actually made contact with the kidnappers, lest one of their targets proved to have basic knowledge of warding. It was so shockingly competent a demand Timothy had actually had to pinch himself.

He gritted his teeth, lunging for the roof ridge as his feet slid out from under him. He slipped to a halt, hanging by one hand from the decorative terracotta ridge tiles, hat askew, cheek pressed against cold clammy slate. Had he alerted anyone to their presence? Because if he had, then he'd just single-handedly screwed up the entire mission.

The night stayed calm, just the distant sound of voices as a friendly brawl from an inn a few streets away spilled out into the night...a cat yowling on a nearby rooftop...

It appeared they were in the clear.

He carefully shuffled forward, easing his way up to the wall of the boarding house itself, straddling the apex of the roof, then moving into the deep shadows by their target. Chuddy and Juno joined him; he gave them a quick glance, looking for any signs of disapproval from the two professionals, but their faces were obscured in the shadows. There was nothing for it so he pressed on, working his way closer to the small sash window; knowing his luck, somebody would be on the other side.

It took a little jiggling and Chuddy's multi-tool to prise the lower half of the sash from its home; sliding it down onto the floor of the room they paused, ears straining for any sign that they had been heard. The dark room breathed lavender scented air out at them, but other than that...so he eased his way through. Risking a light, he played his pen-torch over the room. The small bedroom was predictably shabby, the wall-paper faded and peeling away, and a damp stain was busily colonising the ceiling. Despite that, someone had taken pride in this room, keeping it spotlessly clean, giving it homely touches like the rag-rug in front of the hearth and the twee picture of a cottage on the wall, and a brand-new and very muggle duvet on the bed, a gift from a concerned relative maybe.

A desk stood near the window, the chair tumbled over. Looked like the room's occupant had been disturbed while working on...he examined the piles of books and notes...GCSE Mathematics and English, when the boarding house had been invaded. Timothy shuddered to himself; but for the grace of God there went he...if he'd never met Carrow...

He signalled the all clear to the others, slowly opening the bedroom door. The dark and much grubbier landing was deserted, a little trickle of light working its way up from a lower floor. They eased out further into the building working their way through each floor, searching room to room for any hiding hostiles, any innocents who'd managed to hide away. On the third floor half in, half out of the bathroom they found a man sprawled on his back, staring sightlessly up at the peeling ceiling, blood pooling around his head.

"Gun-shot definitely," Chuddy muttered as he carefully examined the small hole in the middle of the unfortunate's forehead. "Looks like he put up a fight, so they got rid of him." He turned one of the man's hands round to display its bruised knuckles.

There was nothing they could do for him, so they left.

As they sidled along the third floor landing, Juno suddenly froze. "Do you hear that?" she muttered.

Timothy and Chuddy paused. The sound of muffled crying was accompanied by gruff male voices, their words indistinct but hard and demanding, the sound of scuffles and booted footsteps coming ever closer. Timothy shared a quick look with Chuddy and then they were scurrying into place on either side of the door, Juno hiding in the shadows. The door creaked open, "...and stop ya blubberin', ya fat cow," a harsh voice demanded, its owner glaring over his shoulder. Timothy shot him in the head as he and Chuddy surged forward, shoving the falling corpse back into the room, Juno quick behind them. The other would be kidnapper stared at them, horrified hazel eyes wide behind his balaclava, slowly bringing his crossbow up to fire, until Chuddy got to him. Clamping a hand over his mouth, Chuddy quickly and efficiently knifed him in the abdomen, deliberately angling the knife upwards. The would-be kidnapper made a sad little noise before collapsing to the floor in a tangled heap.

Timothy turned to find the two young women huddled together on the floor, eyes wide and glassy as they stared at the dead bodies and the blood...so much blood.

"All clear," Juno said as she gave the small en-suite bathroom a quick inspection.

"Good evening," Timothy said to the two stunned young women, "we're currently working with the DMLE to alleviate your...situation. I am Faulks and these are my colleagues Juno and Chuddy...and you are?" he looked between the two hopefully but the shock of their violently disturbed night seemed to have taken its toll on them.

Timothy sighed inwardly; they didn't have the time to really hope the sorry pair, but he really didn't want to leave them on their own either. He grimaced; there was really only one thing they could do. Grabbing a quilt off the bed, he strode over to the bathroom.

"Do you have your wands?" he asked the two quivering women.

They shook their heads. "He...he took them," the blonde whispered.

Juno shrugged as she looked down at the crumpled body of the man Chuddy had knifed. Rifling through his pockets she found the two items.

"Right," Timothy sighed, shoving the blanket into the blonde's arms, "both of you lock yourselves in the bathroom. Keep as quiet as you can and only open the door for the Aurors or us. Can you do that?"

The brunette looked up at him clutching her wand to her chest, nodding hesitantly. "Come _on, _Flossie!" She hustled her stunned friend into the bathroom, the lock sliding in place with a small clunk.

"Let's get on with this," Timothy muttered to Juno and Chuddy, "we've spent enough time here."

They were making their way along first floor landing when they heard the Auror's signal, a crackle of bangs that was quickly followed by a thunderous crash as the front door splintered under the impact of a conjured marble ball that whistled down the hall before abruptly disappearing. A more muffled thump suggested much the same was happening to the back door. The Aurors stampeded in after it, fanning out as they kicked open doors and poked into dark corners, wands at the ready.

Gunfire began to ring out, the whine and whistle of spells, shouting and screams. Timothy exchanged looks with the others, before sidling sideways down the stairs. He wasn't going to rush in blindly, but he was reluctant to leave the Aurors to themselves against guns either.

As they descended, the extent of the problem became clear; an open door to a middle room, maybe a parlour was acting as cover to a balaclava wearing, robe clad man, who was sending hex after hex down the hall towards the Auror team, who'd ducked into cover in another doorway, the stairs and even a large potted palm. A friend ducked round him every so often, throwing transfigured knives and throwing stars.

"Who is this idiot?" one of the Aurors shouted over the spell-fire as she flung severing hexes back.

Juno put her Cadia through the banisters and fired. The two unfortunates jerked and twitched before falling to the floor in a crumpled and bleeding heap.

"About bloody time," the Auror shouted, leaping out of cover she sprinted down the hall and skipping over the dead men, entered the parlour closely followed by her colleagues. As Timothy made the bottom of the stairs, the shouting and sounds of fighting from the back of the building reached a crescendo. There was a slamming of doors, a terrified scream and the sound of running feet in heavy boots.

Timothy scrambled round the newel post, charging towards the desperate would-be kidnappers as they tried to escape the Aurors in the kitchen area. He ducked a badly aimed blood boiling hex, and yelped as a slashing charm brushed past his cheek. This was getting extremely dangerous very quickly. He had to put a stop to it now. Quickly closing the distance between them, he drew his sabre, slashing one across the belly before running his screaming friend through.

Something thudded into his back, and he turned to find the other thug screaming, drawing back his fist to take the largest haymaker he possibly could, a loop of intestine escaping through the slash in his blood soaked t-shirt. Some people were just masochistic, Timothy thought, punching the idiot obligingly a few times in the face.

Kicking the dead man off his blade, he turned to finish the masochist off, only to find a couple of glaring Aurors had got to him already and were busily handcuffing him, smearing his wound with a foul smelling balm. Timothy grimaced at the horribly familiar smell of the Flesh-Knitting Paste; it always seemed to linger around him, especially after he'd been sparring with the Coven.

The Aurors glared suspiciously at him. "We've got this one. It would be nice to actually have someone to question for once," the older healer-trained one snapped.

Hunching his shoulders, Timothy stalked down the hall towards the sounds of fighting, Juno and Chuddy sidling past the glaring Aurors after him. He knew that some of the DMLE absolutely despised him and saw him as nothing but an interloper, but when he actually experienced it...

Smoke drifted from the kitchen area, voices shouting and swearing over the crackle and hiss of spell fire. Timothy quickly glanced round the doorframe to find a scene of carnage, the large table over turned, several broken chairs scattered around on the red tiled floor. A very still leather jacket wearing man slumped among the wreckage, his balaclava torn and burnt revealing tufts of brown hair and a nasty burn across his obviously broken nose. An Auror sheltering behind the upturned table spotted them and grimaced, before ducking as another hail of curses erupted from where Timothy guessed the scullery lay.

The remains of a chair suddenly flung itself towards the scullery, exploding in a shower of splinters, backed up by more slashing and cutting hexes as several Aurors, trapped by the large and relatively untouched dresser, retaliated.

Timothy groaned; this was going to be an utter mess if it wasn't already, he just knew it. Crouching, he ran to the cover of the over turned table, coming to a halt by the Auror.

"Come here often?" the Auror grinned at him as Juno and Chuddy started firing in short bursts that chattered deafeningly in the confined space of the kitchen. Timothy gave the strange man a tight smile as he peeked round the table towards the thug's hiding place. The men had taken cover within the scullery itself, but if they put so much as a toe outside...he took aim with his Browning, and as luck would have it...a scruffy trainer appeared, attached to a jean clad leg...

"Tim, get down!" Juno screamed, just as shattering glass and a wall of heat hit him. Throwing himself to the floor, he covered his face as best he could, screwing his eyes shut. What complete _idiot_ threw a petrol bomb in a confined space like this?

"..._Tim..._TIM!"

Timothy groaned and shifted; that had been rather unpleasant, and for some reason, a rather strident bell was going off somewhere nearby.

"Are you all right?" Juno asked. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Timothy blearily squinted up at her. "Ahh...two?" he hazarded a guess.

Juno and Chuddy gave him suspicious looks, but he ignored them, dragging himself to his feet, taking in the devastation, the groaning Aurors checking themselves for injuries...the flames and the broken glass...he pulled his wand out, hastily banishing the nearest puddle of burning liquid, coughing on the rank smoke as he did so.

Shuffling and screaming burst from the scullery, as one of the thugs burst out, dragging a screaming young women, his robes smoking slightly, followed by several others, all franticly waving their wands and guns at the staggering law enforcers as they stumbled as quickly as they could to the backdoor.

"They went that way," an injured Auror shouted as they staggered past at a sprint.

"No shit, Sherlock," Chuddy muttered as they went out the backdoor.

Out in the courtyard, it seemed three of the hostage-takers had dragged a couple of the young women with them into the cover of the old lavatories, a shabby brick building that was as unloved as it was unused.

"Looks like muggleborns, all right," Juno muttered as she ducked into the meagre cover provided by a coal-shed as shots rang out, bullets zipping past them.

"Right. I wonder what gave them away," Timothy muttered through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the sting as fragments of bricks blasted off the wall by the gunfire hit his cheek. He fired back.

Swearing and cursing drifted over from the lavatories. "Shit, they've got guns too! Stop fannying around...get out of here!" A loud slap as flesh met flesh, sounds of struggling, muffled screams and curses, and then running feet.

Swearing, Timothy leapt up. Rounding the lavatories, Browning at the ready, he was just in time to see the rapidly retreating backs of the scum-bags and their victims. He gave chase, but they had a head start and obviously knew the area well as they dived round a corner.

Timothy skidded to a halt in the narrow lane, Juno and Chuddy not far behind him. He hated this area; there were so many little jitties and back-ways, hidden little courtyards and the like, it was possible to become severely lost. He crept forward, gun at the ready, peering intently down each narrow way as he sidled past.

"Hey Faulks, I think I might have found blood."

Timothy turned to find Cuddy crouched down carefully examining some stain on the cobbles with his pocket torch, Juno standing beside him, staring around suspiciously, her gun at the ready.

"Looks really fresh too," Chuddy said as he stood up casting the torch about, "wasn't one of those idiots limping?"

"He was, wasn't he," Timothy said thoughtfully, his eyes going to the cobbles, "very nice of them to leave us a trail."

The erratic trail led them down a narrow jitty next to a butchers that catered to hags (the stench was incredible), and out onto a wider street Timothy found rather familiar; why, that was the little junk shop where he'd bought a new-to-him mattress, and got it home, only to find it was infested with a family of rather angry doxies. It was only a couple of years ago that he'd actually had a small flat on a little lane just a bit further up...near the St Martin's Portal, one of the legendary back-entrances into the Knockturn Alley area. Oh hell, they really did know the area; he took off at a sprint, Juno and Chuddy charging after him.

He skidded round the corner into the hilariously named Orchard Place, a barren brick court-yard, just in time to see through the open portal the balaclava wearing thugs loading their limping, and not very well looking, friend into the back of a grubby and battered white transit van with a number of terrified young women already inside.

Spotting him, one of the thugs banged on the side of the van. "Drive, damn it, drive!" he screamed as the engine roared into life. Timothy flung a tracking charm at the rapidly retreating van, but missed as it lurched erratically across the road. Swearing softly, he could only watch as the vehicle swung wildly round the corner into Garrick Street. By the time he got down there, they could be almost anywhere; hopefully, the Police would stop them for driving like complete idiots.

He turned despondently back to the portal to find Chuddy scribbling something down in a notepad. "Got the number plate," he said, "back one anyway."

Timothy gave him a painful smile. "I've been thinking like a wizard again, haven't I?" he sighed wondering if he could get away with a cigarette now.

"Don't worry, we'll cure that," Juno said, "though I think it would be an excellent idea if we get back there before someone spots us." She nervously looked round, cradling her Cadia IV protectively to her chest.

oOo

"Right, so the perpetrator, Jimmy Wilson, was willingly let into the boarding house by his "girlfriend" Mandy Prentice, who he'd been grooming for this exact purpose for the last four months or so, at approximately five past eleven." Auror Hewitt eyed the chewed up remains of a door with a frown. "While Ms Prentice made use of her bathroom, he sneaked back downstairs and let his accomplices in through the front door, who we believe numbered fourteen or so...after that we know they split up and worked their way through the building, and this is where it gets increasingly muddy.

"Interrogator Faulks and his team apprehended several of the felons on the third floor and rescued two young ladies, as well as discovering the body of an unfortunate gentleman. Meanwhile, our teams entered the building at both back and front experiencing far more resistance than was initially anticipated, due to some of the felons resorting to _muggle weaponry_. The front team were pinned down, and my team were forced into a siege situation, before unusual weapons were applied.

"We're not sure what happened next..." he looked round the gathering of Aurors, specialist crime scene investigators, and Interrogator Faulks and his...people, "but we're going to find out one way or the other."

"Well, that's going to be interesting," said the Magical Trace expert, "none of the perpetrators used any magic at all until the Auror teams made entrance. And if we go onto non-magical methods, well, the most up-to-date is finger printing ...but they were all wearing gloves, so we have no idea who touched what or when so fingerprints are going to be nigh on useless." He sighed heavily. "We're going to be reliant on witness statements, and you know how unreliable those can be at times."

Timothy and his team shared incredulous looks.

"What about all the bullets?" Juno asked. "You've got quite a few of their guns too...you should be able to match up which gun fired which bullet...if you test fired them and compared."

"It would make it very simple to eliminate our firearms from theirs," Chuddy agreed, "plus they should all have serial numbers, and even if they've been filed off and that, I'd have thought there would be magical ways of revealing them. Then you could check with the police, see if they've been stolen, used in other crimes, that sort of thing." He shrugged.

Timothy nodded in approval. "Plus we got the back number-plate and a description of their getaway vehicle. If you give that to the...muggle police, then they can look out for it. Maybe tell us the van's owner, check if the plates were stolen...or the van...or if it's been used in other crimes, that sort of thing."

The Aurors were now staring openly at them with a mixture of incomprehension and shock, as if they had suddenly broken into a song and dance routine complete with top-hats and canes.

"We have a pretty good idea who was resident here, so we can quite simple work out who is...missing...and hopefully find reasonably current photographs of them. If we give those to the police with their personal details then they can look out for them, since they have been so obviously taken into the muggle world..." he looked round the silent gathering, "that's quite a few avenues that can be looked at straight away. I'm sure there are others. It just requires a little work with the Police."

The Magical Trace expert inflated like an enraged balloon. "Absolutely not," he spluttered indignantly, "of all the ridiculous things. We're magical and they're not, and there's nothing they can do that we can't, and that is that!" He harrumphed, before turning on his heel and storming off.

"Bloody idiot," Chuddy muttered.

Frankly, Timothy agreed with him, but with more banging of heads against walls_. It was probably one of the hardest things to do_, he thought as he stepped over the remains of the front door, while pulling out a Black Russian, _persuading the magical world the non-magical had something worthwhile to give them_. He took a drag from his cigarette, but of course this was probably a classic case of taking a horse to water, but not being able to persuade it to drink.

OOOOOO

Not fly, he'd show them not fly. Carefully checking for the security guards, he sprinted round the corner in a blur of motion, diving into the deep shadow that lay inside the hangar bay. Crouching beside a large supporting pillar, Carrow surveyed the layout of the land. His target sat squarely in the middle of the hangar, lit up by his helmet's auspex, a magnificent craft, angular, menacing, black as night, just lacking the armaments and insignia she deserved.

She should be easy enough to fuel, if she needed it; a team of researchers were currently in the process of performing ground tests on the engines, something about performance over time. So...check fuel levels (well, he said fuel, but it was actually water for the twin reactors), standard pre-flight checks...then get the hangar's shutter up, and then...into the sky. He broke into a broad grin, he couldn't wait.

He slinked across to the looming shape of his beloved craft. _Not quite a Thunderhawk, but she'll do nicely_, he thought, as he patted her underside while he waited for the rear ramp to lower. One last look around and he charged inside, eager to get this done. The cockpit was everything he'd hoped for, the instrument layout he'd absolutely insisted on, nice and clear, just like he was used to from his days serving the Imperium of Man, seats designed for the wearing of power armour, clean, practical, easy to hose down in case of sudden outbreaks of blood and gore (you never knew)...wonderful.

The fuel gauge for the twin reactors was reading close to full, and everything else seemed to be in order. A step closer...of course, as soon as he opened the shutters, he would inevitably trip all sorts of alarms. Best to start the engines now, let them warm up while he cleared the way...then he could just taxi out, and...take off.

The banging and shouting began surprisingly quickly, considering how ridiculously unobservant the security personnel had been up until this point. _Sloppy really, I'll be having words with Timothy about it later_, he thought, as he sprinted back to the aircraft. He really needed to think of a name for her.

The blocks pulled away from the wheels and the ramp closing behind him, he dived for the cockpit, quickly strapping himself in, unable to help the huge grin of anticipation as he slowly opened up the engine and rolled out of the hangar into the night...

...into a hive of activity as some of the security people exhibited enough sense and attempted to block his way to the runway with their vehicles and whatever else they could get their hands on. The runway had been condemned as being only suitable for light aircraft. He had helpfully pointed out that his so called "experimental" aircraft was quite small really, so it should be quite acceptable. Timothy had even told him to "shut up". Well, if they weren't going to allow him to use the "undersized" runway, then he was just going to have to go...straight up.

Running a hand over the controls, he made adjustments before gently opening the throttle. She rose majestically into the air, the hangar building and swarming security people falling away, the powerful throb of the engines vibrating through his seat. His hearts beat faster as he carefully inched her round away from the buildings, open space opening up before him. This was it. Now to prove what she was capable of...

...so he opened up the throttle.

She shot forward as if stung, the engines surging powerfully as if a wild and hungry animal roared for freedom. Smirking triumphantly, Carrow pulled the yoke back, a sly grin spreading across his face as the ground fell away.

oOo

"Well, she flies," Franklin shrugged as he watched the lumbering aircraft arc up into the sky, the blue glow of her engines rapidly receding as she gained altitude.

The nearest security guard snorted derisively. "And to think I gave up a nice peaceful supermarket job for _this_," he muttered as he stumped off.

"He's still gaining altitude," Vanessa, the department's best arithmancer, commented. "I wonder...is he going to make low Earth orbit?"

They exchanged looks, before urgently returning to their observations of the wayward craft. "I turned all the measuring and recording devices on while I could, by the way," Vanessa commented, nodding towards some of her colleagues, who were excitedly pouring over a handheld computation device.

Franklin grinned happily, a manic gleam in his eyes. "_Brilliant!_ We're going to have so much data to look through...oh, look, he's put the shields up!" He began to bounce excitedly on his heels.

The rapidly rising aircraft was now surrounded by a bright blue corona of light, giving it the appearance of a shooting star travelling the wrong way.

"He's going to do it...he's going to do it," Franklin whispered, as he watched the blue spark shrink and gradually fade away. "He's done it," he gasped, "somebody tell me he's done it..." he demanded of the motley little crowd of scientists, engineers and magical specialists.

One of the older wizards nodded frantically, his pointed hat askew; holding the device up, he checked the figures one last time. "Oh, yes, er...Big Bertha is now in orbit, at an altitude of approximately 200 kilometres."

Vanessa whooped with delight and flung her arms around her slightly shorter colleague, bouncing up and down as she did so. Franklin smiled dazed and happy as he watched his underlings high-fiving and hugging one another, chattering happily as they discussed the figures scrolling on the display of the handheld computational device. He'd done it, he'd actually built a space capable vehicle from scratch. He'd always wanted to be an astronaut, but well, he'd sort of not quite made it, getting side-tracked by the physical properties and behaviours of materials in novel situations along the way. He gazed up at the clear sky, wondering if Carrow would take him up one day if he asked nicely.

"What is going on?" a furious female voice bellowed. Franklin turned, wincing slightly. _Oh heck, now we're for it_, he thought as Maria Curtis stormed over to them, trailing security personnel and other assorted underlings. The Research department specialists fell silent, shifting guiltily, huddling together for protection.

"Well?" snarled Maria Curtis as she glared around the sea of nervous faces, bristling with authority, despite being attired in a shocking pink velveteen tracksuit. Franklin eyed the terrifying garment warily; _scratch that,_ he thought, _the lady wears it more like armour_.

A sharp elbow to his ribs broke his thoughts, and he turned a reproachful look on a glaring Vanessa.

"Well, go on then," she hissed.

"What?" Franklin blinked, bewildered.

"You're in charge of us," Vanessa said, beginning to tow him over to the enraged higher management, "time to face the music...maybe. I'll be with you." She gave him a little smirk.

"Thanks...I think," Franklin muttered back.

Ms Curtis watched them with narrowed eyes as they approached her, hands on her hips, the very ruffled and irate Head of Security standing nearby.

"You know the, err...experimental aircraft...shuttle really that we thought would never fly?" Franklin tried to stay calm, tried to suppress the excitement that threatened to bubble up and get him into serious trouble. "Well...Mr Carrow has taken it and has achieved low earth orbit. He's, err...up there somewhere." He pointed towards the night sky, unable to help grinning a little.

Ms Curtis seemed to inflate with rage for a moment, before her steely self-control reasserted itself. "And where is Mr Faulks in all this?" she asked through gritted teeth. "Well?" she snapped looking round at blank faces and the slightly sheepish Head of Security. "He is, after all, apparently one of the few people who can stop Carrow in his tracks."

oOo

The blue of the sky faded to indigo, and then to the deep black of space. Carefully, he manoeuvred into a safe orbit and switched the auto-pilot on. It was very basic and he wouldn't have it any other way; as if he would hand over control of a vehicle he was in to a _machine intelligence_.

With a twist and a hiss of escaping air, he removed his helmet, settling back in his seat. There before him was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Such a profusion of stars, tiny points of light in the deep velvet darkness, so intense; he'd never seen it's like anywhere else. Even the darkest of caves could not compare.

Each of those sharp lights hanging in this infinite emptiness was host to some sort of planetary system, even if it was just barren hunks of mineral rich rocks waiting to be mined. How many had he visited in nearly three hundred years of service to the Imperium? He'd lost count after two hundred systems...and since he'd been posted on the other side of the Maelstrom for much of his life, they were all far too distant for even his preternatural eyesight to spot. His thoughts turned to missed places, missed people, the ache of possibly failing in his duty...but he was being ridiculous; he'd managed to get the rest of the melta-charges to Brother Hadrian, and the Grey Knight was one of the most dutiful and competent people he'd ever had the pleasure of working with; though the Justicar could have benefitted greatly from a sense of humour.

No, he needed to think of the future, for the good of Humanity. Here it was laid out before him in the stars, literally begging to be colonised and turned to the purpose of the Human race. Oh, what a glorious undertaking; he sighed happily. To think he would be privileged to be a part of such an important undertaking. He made the sign of the Aquila and prayed. The God-Emperor might test him in strange ways, but he would live up to the challenge, no matter what. He would prove himself worthy. Humanity was so small and fragile in this ancient past, so badly needing guidance to achieve its full potential, and he was just the person to do it.

He leaned back in his seat once more as the sun rose rapidly over the limb of Terra; the nearest extra-solar star according to his studies (and he was still waiting for his exam results, Throne curse it) was approximately four light years away. The R&amp;D people, despite their strides in astronautical engineering, still weren't quite able to produce something like a warp-drive or some other equivalent faster-than-light engine. So baby steps (as Timothy would say) first.

Luna swung up over the horizon, a silvery pockmarked disc, pristine and unmarked by human activity. Oh, to be sure, there had been those...Apollo...missions in the...1960's, but they hardly counted. He watched idly as the unsullied Luna swung past, lacking its vast gun batteries, a germ of an idea growing in his mind. The orbital and rotational periods of Luna were virtually identical, so of course the far side was never visible...so, start a base of operations there and it wouldn't be noticed for quite some time. Now all he had to do was plan...

He passed into the darkness of night again. Through the thin clouds, twinkling lights began to appear, cities and large towns, arteries of major roads all delineated in light, and in between, vast areas of darkness, uninhabited maybe, or at least sparsely populated, a far cry from the Holy Terra he remembered, a planet he had stood on the surface of twice. It had been a shrivelled world, old and crowded, weighed down by its own history, its surfaced layered with strata of buildings, the inhabitants crowded on top of one another, feeling privileged for every mean inch of space they owned, while underneath in the ancient underbelly, strange creatures roamed and lost gangs eked out a living on rats and other strange creatures that had adapted to the darkness.

Would it be such a terribly _heretical_ thing if such a Holy Terra never came to pass?

Carrow sighed heavily as he watched flashes of light illuminating the clouds of a distant thunderstorm. He had to go back, he'd proved his point after all; she worked, very well in fact. As he flicked the autopilot off and prepared for re-entry, he had a little feeling Timothy wasn't going to be very happy with him.

oOo

"Interrogator Faulks," a lanky youth from the support team called, "there's someone to see you. Apparently it's urgent."

Timothy looked round suspiciously. He was working; why would someone seek him out except for the sake of trouble? A worried looking Wulfric stood behind the lanky youth. "Tim, you need to come back home, quick." He swallowed nervously as he looked round at the suspicious Aurors. "Something's happened, and we need you to deal with it."

Timothy glared at him. "What? Has Felix pulled some fool prank again? Why would you need me for that?" he hissed, trying to keep their conversation private.

"No, no, Felix is fine," Wulfric tried to reassure him, "no, it's far worse than that."

Timothy narrowed his eyes. "Who did you leave Felix and his friends with? Did you leave them with anyone at all?"

"Hey!" Wulfric looked offended. "I'm not _that_ stupid. Methuselah is looking after him, and I left him a note to explain why."

Sighing in relief, Timothy nodded. Methuselah was probably the most sensible member of the Coven, and certainly wouldn't allow the young cat-boy to make sardine sandwiches at three in the morning.

"It's Carrow," Wulfric muttered, "he's taken Big Bertha for a spin, and, err...he's up there, somewhere." He gestured up towards the night sky, the stars obscured by London's ever present light pollution.

Timothy swore.

oOo

Yelena was just completing a routine instrument check when she saw it, an unnaturally uniform motion against the clouds that currently blanketed parts of Eurasia. She blinked in surprise, drifting over to the small window to get a better look. It looked like some sort of aircraft, angular and boxy with stubby useless looking wings, a faint blue glow denoting the presence of active engines.

"Aleksandr," she called as she scrambled for the video camera, "come and have a look at this..."

oOo

It was with a heavy heart that he made re-entry, leaving the stars behind once more, roaring through a mass of clouds that were making their way across the large ocean located to the geographical west of the little island nation that he had made his home. It looked like there was a distinct possibility of strong winds and heavy rain in the next twelve hours.

As he dropped below the base of the clouds and turned off the shields, he spotted the most intriguing object on the ocean surface below. Carrow had to admit that he wasn't all that au fait with nautical vessels, and hadn't really had the opportunity to expand his limited knowledge...or even thought to. For someone versed in the intricacies of star-ships and inter-planetary warfare, the minutiae of planetary life held little to no interest. Obviously, he had been negligent in this regard, for what could this vessel be? It was rather drab coloured, and had a deck of the most curious shape, almost as if...could it be a mobile airfield? And it appeared to have anti-aircraft guns too...but no other armament...how strange.

He dropped down for a better look.

There appeared to be hatches, maybe to storage hangars for air vehicles of some kind, so he turned his ship, and went back for an even closer look. It had a much shorter runway than he had. He would be sure to mention that little fact when he returned home. He watched in fascination, and turned back for yet another look. Now the decks were swarming with personnel, all quickly going about their appointed tasks, and...yes, he was correct in his assumption of the use of the hatches, as he watched yet another aircraft rise up out of the depths to join the others sitting hunched on the deck like strange insects, their wings folded up to conserve space.

So it was perhaps a military transport of some sort, but could it possibly be some strange and ancient fore-runner of a Rogue Trader? It was ridiculously under-armed, and it didn't appear heavily armoured either. He sighed to himself; he really didn't understand at all.

A series of flashes came across the shuttle's port side, followed by some unintelligible squawking on the radio. He flicked it off, rolling away from the little fighter craft that was trying to sneak up on him. Firing uncomfortably close, it followed. If this went on, he was going to need a new paint job before he'd even seen real battle. He twisted away and dived, going low along the side of the ocean-going vessel, before pulling steeply up. Yet more of the little fighters followed, swarming around him in formation.

He flipped her over and surged towards them rolling as he did so, smirking as they scattered out of the way. She was quite marvellous, striking like a Warhammer...almost a name there...Hammer? _Hammer of Righteousness_? No, too like the Ecclesiarchy. _Hammer of Doom_ had possibilities..._Hammer of Justice_...yes, that had a nice ring to it, he thought as he rolled and dived and swerved testing the capabilities of the _Hammer of Justice_ to her limits, dodging the increasing fire that was coming his way courtesy of the highly trained and very determined fighter pilots.

This was all rather interesting, but he couldn't fight back, so he was going to go to the one place he highly doubted they could follow.

He switched the shields back onto full, the corona of blue fire flickering into life once more. Satisfied that they were at optimum strength, he fired the main engine once more, revelling in the extreme acceleration, watching with a grin as the little fighters attempted to keep up, falling away one by one, the sky darkening, until it was that velvety black once more.

oOo

"It won't be back," Aleksandr sighed in exasperation as he watched his fellow cosmonaut drifting by the window, clutching the video camera, a determined expression on her face, blonde hair spreading around her head like a halo. He turned back to his task with a shake of his head, carefully wiping the corners of the quails' small enclosure clean, wincing slightly as one of the birds bounced off his head as it launched itself off the side, fluttering madly for a few seconds.

"It's back," an excited shriek came behind him. Aleksandr turned to find Yelena carefully filming whatever it was, so he drifted over as quickly as he could to see for himself.

"That is one ugly space-ship," he muttered as he stared intently over Yelena's shoulder. "What did they make it out of? It's like Lada's answer to the American shuttle."

oOo

The waiting was not doing his frazzled nerves any good, Timothy thought as he lit yet another Black Russian, shielding it for a moment from the stiffening breeze. It seemed they were in for a storm, of more than one variety. He gave the others waiting a quick sideways glance.

Ms Curtis was just as furious as he was, managing to look more intimidating in pink velveteen than she ever did in her usual suit dresses. The Head of Security stood beside her, glaring furiously. Carrow had after all humiliated him and his staff, running rings around them. The idiot should have listened to him, but as usual he was brushed off, something along the lines of _"don't be ridiculous, how can someone that large sneak around so effectively, especially when he's wearing that lumbering suit of armour?"_

Bet there was a tightening up of _their _standard of security now.

Franklin, on the other hand, was trying very hard to look serious, and failing miserably. Every so often he would begin to bounce excitedly on his heels, suddenly realise what he was doing and stop, glancing around guiltily. His underlings weren't quite so circumspect in their enthusiasm, huddling around a small device, quietly arguing about some aspect of its functioning or other, he couldn't quite hear- or really understand. It seemed to be a combination of high-end arithmancy and computer coding.

"She's made re-entry," one of the older Wizards announced excitedly. Reginald, he thought, and rather unusually, a pure-blood too. The old man came from a long line of eccentrics and had taken to computers with enthusiasm; he was even learning BASIC. Timothy lit another cigarette, taking a long drag; some things were just not fair...and now he was going to have to deal with the Lump, probably in a cheerful mood...at his very worst.

Timothy ground his teeth in barely reined in fury, the hilt of his sword in a white knuckled grip, as he watched the ungainly shuttle-craft make a neat landing on the, apparently, too short runway, taxiing to a neat halt in front of the waiting reception party. The ramp lowered with a hiss of equalising air pressure, its motors humming smoothly. Carrow practically swaggered out, his helmet tucked under one arm, a smug smile like a well fed tiger on his face.

"I have decided to call her the _Hammer of Justice_" the large man announced to the waiting crowd looking around expectantly, "it is after all my right to name her, as she is my property."

"No she isn't," Ms Curtis snapped back, "you great big idiot," she added.

"Timothy," Carrow turned, apparently looking for his support in this matter.

Timothy rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Franklin," he snarled, "take charge of the shuttle and disable it. Take the key out of the ignition or pull the wheels off. I don't care what you do, as long as it's not permanent."

The R&amp;D people didn't need telling twice, and swarmed up the ramp, flowing past Carrow like water, as the large man glared indignantly at the one who dared to ruin his enjoyment.

Timothy glared back. "I'd rather not have a repeat of this little incident," he hissed, his temper coming to the boil nicely, fat sparks of fyre beginning to trail along his fingers, as he stalked towards the much larger man, invading his personal space, ignoring the teeth aching whine of the power armour, getting so close Carrow actually had to step back to see him over his gorget.

"_That_ is an experimental air...space-craft," he hissed dangerously, "we don't know its capabilities yet. You were _very_ lucky, because if something had gone wrong...you would most likely have been _killed_...not to mention all the laws you've just bulldozed over, or the risk to other air-traffic you posed. This country has one of the most heavily crowded air-spaces in the world. The risk of someone just crashing into you, _because they didn't know you were there..._" He came to a shuddering halt, breathing heavily, shaking with rage. "You made this mess, _you_ deal with it. I'm taking the day off," he snarled as he stormed off, leather great coat billowing around him, leaving a bewildered Carrow standing by the _Hammer of Justice_.

OOOOOO

He looked up in surprise as his office door banged open.

"Professor, you've got to see this, it's incredible!" One of the senior data analysts stood there, face flushed with excitement. "Come on!"

The God-Emperor of Mankind followed the smaller man, cautiously wondering what was going on. Phillipe was normally so calm and level headed, not at all prone to emotional outbursts. The large meeting room was packed, everyone avidly watching the large television that had been set up at the front; some people were even standing on chairs to get a better view. Thankful for his extra height, the God-Emperor had an excellent view as the news special report returned to video footage of a strangely familiar craft drifting past the cloud shrouded Earth in all its ugly boxy glory. Looked like his "greatest fan" had got permission to try Big Bertha out...

"_...emergency meeting of the UN called to discuss this possible threat to global safety..."_

...or maybe not.

"_...accusations from Russian officials. American representatives all deny knowledge of any secret military experiments..."_

Wow, looked like darling Allesandor had really kicked the hornets' nest; on the positive side, his little jaunt was going to generate reams and reams of data. He couldn't wait to get his hands on it.

"So, what do you think, Jon? This a precursor to alien invasion?" a voice by his elbow asked. He looked down into the cheerful brown eyes of one of the other professors.

"Err...doubtful. Bet it's just some rich eccentric having a joy-ride in their new toy," the God-Emperor shrugged.

The other professor looked doubtful. "Well, if you say so."

OOOOOO

The chair clattered as he dragged it over the tiled kitchen floor out into the hall and then into the living room. He didn't bother shouting a greeting, just following the sound of his mother's voice; seemed like she was having quite the discussion with Dad. He didn't pay too much attention, just wanting to be home...sort of, somewhere familiar and soothing, and most importantly, Carrow free. He dumped the chair with a clatter, and slumped down into it, the tip of his scabbard scraping noisily on the floor. He was past caring, letting his peaked cap slump forward, as he finally let the exhaustion catch up with him.

The silence was...strange...had a tenseness to it. Normally, Mum just ignored him for a moment, let him calm down and relax for a while before actually trying to get him to do something, like talk...have a shower...eat...

Curious and wary, he tipped his hat up.

A small child grinned up at him, displaying her brand new incisors, eyes wide with curiosity. Timothy froze; oh, _hell! _He swallowed nervously as he took in the disbelieving stares of Uncle Robert, Auntie Marion, his really annoying cousin Steve, and his girlfriend...Katie...Kathy...Karen. He wasn't sure, but that must be their little girl Mum had told him about.

He felt his face begin to flush but ruthlessly suppressed it, his face going utterly rigid, the back of his neck itching uncomfortably as he suddenly realised just how scruffy he must appear; blood splattered on his breast plate, the mud of Diagon Ally still on his boots, more blood caked on the metal studs of his fingerless gloves. He'd loosened his gorget as well, and let it hang down the neck of his dolman. His shirt was open and rather ruffled looking, and he desperately needed a shave. It was bad enough his wider family already thought he was disreputable, thanks to the blasted Statute of Secrecy, and this was just going to confirm everything they'd ever thought about him.

He struggled to his feet. "I'm so sorry," he said stiffly as he turned to leave, "I'll...come back later."

A hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Come into the kitchen, Tim," Dad said, "I'll make you a cup of coffee. I'm taking it this is work related," he said as he ushered him through into the sanctuary of the kitchen.

Timothy chuckled mirthlessly. "Something like that."

He slumped at the kitchen table, rubbing a hand down his face, watching Dad potter round the kitchen, putting the kettle on, pulling the makings of a sandwich from the fridge.

"Dad, honestly I'm fine," Timothy tried to protest.

"Absolute rubbish, Tim," Dad waved a knife at him, "you're far too thin. Now, you're going to eat this sandwich and no nonsense, young man!" He frowned warningly at his son.

Feeling it was safer to give in, Timothy did his best to work through the doorstep like sandwich, but his appetite, never very great, soon flagged. "The Lump went for a joy-ride in an experimental air-craft...shuttle...just to prove a point..." he finally said. Dad turned to stare at him, electric kettle in one hand.

"Well," he said, as he turned back to the mugs of coffee he was preparing, "he never does anything by halves, does he?"

Timothy almost smiled as Dad slid one mug in front of him. "He wasn't even trying to cause trouble as far as I can tell," he sighed, as he clasped the mug between his hands, watching Dad casually flick the kitchen TV on.

"_...spotted by cosmonauts on the Mir Space Station. As can be seen by the video footage they managed to capture of the unidentified space vessel, it is quite clearly of an unknown design. Is this a super-secret military project, or is this an alien vehicle? More of our special news coverage..."_

Dad stared at the television in disbelief. "Is this..." he asked, looking questioningly between Timothy and the television, where a UFO expert was now giving his opinion to a rather uncomfortable news presenter, whose polite smile was becoming increasingly fixed, not helped by the "expert" suddenly pulling out a hat apparently made of baking foil.

"_...completely negates their special rays, stopping them from controlling your mind..." _

Timothy nodded gloomily, grimacing. "Oh yes. Now imagine what he could do if he _really_ put some effort in."

Dad went rather grey.

oOo

He carefully checked the barrel of the Browning again for any signs of dust or debris. It seemed clear, but considering Carrow's exacting standards, he passed the cleaning brush through a few more times, just to be on the safe side. Satisfied, he began the process of oiling the moving parts and giving everything a last wipe over and inspection before he reassembled it, shuffling the unlit Black Russian from one side of his mouth to the other as he did so.

He'd managed to have a shower and even a small nap and felt remarkably more human. Some extra-strong cleansing and freshening charms had rendered his clothing and equipment marginally more acceptable, though it wasn't the same as actually being cleaned properly. He'd give them a thorough go over when he got the opportunity, but there were some things he just couldn't and wouldn't skimp on.

He'd set up an impromptu cleaning station for his gun with a bin-bag and an old copy of the Times to catch any drips, and an entire roll of kitchen towel he'd filched (hopefully Mum wouldn't notice). Once finished, he could just turn the bin-bag inside out with all the rubbish and mess inside and dispose of it; nice and neat. Juno was always full of good ideas. _Bet she never had to clean her handgun with a small child present_, he thought as he moved his brushes away from inquisitive little fingers before Annabelle Daisy (a name more suitable for a Jersey Cow in Timothy's opinion) could get hurt.

"Lovely weather we've been having," Mum's voice drifted through from the living room overly bright and cheerful. "Oh...where's Annabelle gone?" Mum's voice turned serious.

Timothy rolled his eyes as he tried to examine the Browning for dust and keep an eye on the little one where she had climbed laboriously onto a chair so she could watch him intently. "Mum, she's in here," he called as he watched her carefully.

Cousin Steve stormed in, glaring nastily as he gathered his daughter in his arms, giving Timothy a last evil look over his shoulder as he stormed away. Even Annabelle's gap-toothed grin over her dad's shoulder couldn't lift his spirits after that, as he went back to his cleaning. It didn't seem to matter what he did; even cleaned up, his wider family just saw him as a disreputable trouble maker.

The chatter from the living room slowly started up again. "Have you seen the _World of Interiors_?" Mum's voice drifted through. Timothy cringed; oh, no.

"Tim's employer had his house reviewed...now where have I put it..." There was the sound of rustling. "Ah, here it is. There's such a lovely picture of him in it...here it is."

Timothy jumped to his feet, poking his head round the door. "Mum!" he whined, only to find his relatives all giving him odd looks as they looked between him and the magazine.

"Who's the giant guy?" Steve asked dubiously.

"That is Mr Carrow...my employer," Timothy sighed, closing his eyes. This, no doubt, was just cementing their opinion of him.

"You've got burn marks down your sleeve," Steve commented.

Timothy grimaced, looking down at the shot-holes that pitted his sleeve; looked like he needed a new dolman, _again_. "Someone threw a petrol bomb at me...oh look, that's Felix's bedroom." He pointed at the large photo of the lacquered Chinese box-bed with its intricate lattice work, its doors closed firmly on the mess of covers that probably lay within.

"Oh, isn't that a lovely room?" Mrs Faulks said brightly, "I doubt you have any problems getting him to go to bed, cats do have a natural affinity for cupboards, after all."

The relatives looked between them as if they were expecting a visible outbreak of lunacy. Mrs Faulks ignored them and turned the page...

"Silk wallpaper, and isn't that a...Caravaggio," Kathy...or Kirsty said slowly.

"A tiger?" Auntie Marion gave him a funny look.

"Yes, she's called Artemis," Timothy slowly retreated, not wanting to witness the fallout from this.

"She must be interesting to live with," Auntie Marion said dubiously.

Timothy snorted. "Not when she's shoving you out of the bed at four o'clock in the morning she's not," he muttered as he sloped back to his gun cleaning, only to find little Annabelle had beaten him to it and was now attempting to insert one of his gun brushes up her left nostril.

"No, no, you mustn't do that, darling," he said, trying to sound calm as he extracted the brush from the small child. She didn't seem put-off though, instead staying on the chair next to him, watching his activities intently, as he gave the Browning a last wipe over and began to tidy away his equipment, shrugging on his shoulder holster with a creak of leather and giving the Browning a last check.

Timothy watched her from the corner of his eye; _women_, he thought_, all the same, just completely gun-obsessed_. He winced as the French doors rattled, something large scrabbling against them. His heart sunk as a large and familiar feline stared through the glass at him with large blue eyes.

"Hello, Artemis," Timothy muttered with a sigh as he went to let her in. "Where's your daddy then? He can't be far."

He grabbed his great coat, swinging it round his shoulders as he dodged out past the tiger, while she surged into the warmth of the house. At least now he could have that cigarette, lighting it with a snap of his fingers and taking a long drag. A small rustling and the slight scrunching of gravel announced the arrival of something large moving very quietly. "Well?" Timothy snapped, breathing out smoke, staring out over the wintery garden.

There was a shuffling of gravel and a soft rumbling, "I...came to apologise," Carrow finally muttered, "I...caused you distress..." he trailed off, shifting uncomfortably again.

Timothy stared at him, closing his eyes with a wince. Why couldn't Carrow dress like a normal person? Today, he'd decided to wear a black chiton over his body-glove, pinned at one shoulder with a broach fashioned as a snarling beast, and then accessorised his attire with boots and greaves, and a wrist mounted computer which gave off an eerie green glow. Very chic, in a genre challenged sort of way. "You have no idea why I'm upset, do you?" he finally said. A thoughtful frown crossed Carrow's features, as he opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind and shook his head.

"I...no...no, I don't." He blinked expectantly at his secretary.

Timothy closed his eyes, rubbing at the tension that was again building at his temples. "Right...it can't be helped, I suppose," he sighed heavily.

A shrill scream rent the air, and the two men looked at one another in puzzlement. "Artemis," Timothy snarled, whirling round and charging back through the French doors. He stormed into the living room to find his family in disarray. His uncle and aunt standing on the sofa, Kirsty...Katie...Kay was hyperventilating, gesticulating desperately, cousin Steve snarling impotently, Dad staring in shock...

Timothy desperately tried not to laugh as he took in Artemis lounging in front of the fire, little Annabelle leaning up against her, babbling happily.

"Timothy," Mum asked looking rather strained, "is she house trained?"

_What was it with mums and their priorities_? Timothy thought as he gave her a funny look.

Carrow eased himself through the door behind him. "How charming," he rumbled with a smile. Timothy hid his choked laughter with a cough, as the large man sidled past him.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you all. I am Allesandor Darius Carrow," Carrow continued, smiling like a piranha at his stunned and horrified audience. "Timothy has told me _so much_ about you all."

OOOOOO

The morning was misty and cold, the grass crunching under his feet as he patrolled around the perimeter of the camp, ever watchful, his staff held at the ready. He'd fashioned it from a young tree, some sapling, straight and doomed, growing as it was in such a crowded space. He'd not had the time to properly dry it and that, but hopefully it would still hurt when he hit someone with it. Some of the others had objected strongly to his blatant carrying of a weapon, arguing that he was violating the entire spirit of being part of an anti-war protest in the first place, and that the whole being hunted by something in the wood at night was a load of hysterical guff, and that he should just leave.

He'd refused.

A couple of them had left, the others refused to speak to him, blanking him at every opportunity. But a few of the others were starting to listen to him, were fed up of things or people moving around or disappearing, like poor Brian just a few nights ago, of strange noises in the night, of rustling sounds, the feeling of being hunted...

...and then of course there was Pongo who was just completely oblivious to it all.

Badger grumbled to himself as he returned to the camp, the smell of breakfast beginning to waft over, the quiet murmur of voices and sounds of domesticity.

"Hey, Badger," one of the other night-watch said, as he yawned and stretched, "spot anything?" He grinned lazily as he sprawled back down into the plastic garden chair again. Badger glared at him, giving a grunt in reply as he stalked past intent on a cup of tea, something fried, and his sleeping-bag. The moron was unbelievable, sleeping through the night when he should have been keeping a look out. Idiot; didn't the strange happenings around the camp mean anything to him?

Rainbow (the victim of unfortunately hippie parents) gave him a smirk as she dumped toast, a fried egg and very vegetarian sausages onto his tin plate. He grimaced back. "Yeah, yeah, so I'm paranoid," he muttered to her.

Rainbow shrugged with a grin. "S'not paranoia if they're really out to get you, is it?" she said back.

Badger grunted tiredly, turning to find a seat.

Brian came out of his tent scratching his bottom, yawning. "Hey guys, what's for breakfast?" he asked.

"Where the hell have you been?" one of the others snarled angrily as they stormed over. "You've been missing for _days._"

Brian blinked in surprise. "Whu...what do you mean..." he looked around the suspicious stares for support, "come on guys, this isn't funny."

Badger filched a _Guardian_ from a nearby chair. "Brian, what day is it?" he asked, approaching his fellow protestor.

"Erm...Tuesday...20th January, I think," he said nervously.

Badger handed him the paper. Brian took it hesitantly with a shaking hand. "Wha...wha..." he began as he took in the date, "but how...how?" he cried his face ashen and pale.

Badger sighed heavily as he watched Brian begin to hyperventilate, his breathing desperate and panicked. This was exactly why they needed to build a wall or palisade of some kind round the camp, fortify it a bit, maybe dig a ditch too. At least then they'd know if someone broke in.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note

I'm afraid I must apologise for the shortness of the chapter, it just didn't seem to grow. I've gone over and over it trying to see if there's anything plot critical I've missed but I apologise if I have.

And then we have Matthew…I'd be the first to admit that I've got very little experience or knowledge of the military. I've tried very hard to do my research both online and through books and the like but of course that sort of thing only gets you so far. Jacobus-Minoris has been a great help on this front having a much more in-depth knowledge than myself but his expertise is World War I so…

If you see anything truly awful please tell me, other than that enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 8

There was an itch developing at the back of his neck, just where the collar of his shirt was digging in, the hairs prickling like crazy, and just to add to the misery a single dribble of chilly sweat was crawling its way down his spine. And there was not a single bloody thing he could do about it either, he thought, as he warily watched the Adjutant flicking slowly through the file of paperwork on his desk, the crackle of the pages almost thunderous in the heavy stifling atmosphere of the office.

Finally the Adjutant leaned back in his chair, gazing at them over his steepled fingers, his eyes sharp and intelligent. "It's been a while seen I've seen that amount of black ink on one document," he commented.

Matthew winced, and risked a sneaky peek at the desk. _Oh bloody buggering fuck_, he thought as he stared resolutely straight ahead. What he could see looked like it had been attacked by some nut with a grudge against multi-syllabic words and a marker pen. It really was as bad as he'd thought, maybe even worse.

"Given the circumstances, you came out of this rather well. Apparently, Mr Carrow is _known_," the Adjutant said with a tight smile, which did nothing to relieve Matthew's discomfort in any way.

"But, of course, given the nature of the entire incident, and the seriousness of the operation you unwittingly became a part of, you will all be signing the Official Secrets Act." He looked between them, expression hard and cold. "This event will not be a topic of conversation ever again. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Sir," they chorused smartly.

Oh hell, Matthew thought, did this include the Zombie Attack manual as well? And did he dare ask?

oOo

Matthew finally let loose he huge sigh of relief he'd been holding inside for the last two hours. Beside him, he could feel Fitch relax as they finally escaped the oppressive atmosphere of the Adjutant's office at a rapid but professional and sombre pace.

"That was…" Fitch began.

"Save it," Matthew hissed at him out of the corner of his mouth.

"Right," Fitch sighed.

When they got back to barracks, Eddie appeared to be cleaning about six pairs of boots. Apparently someone had called in some favours. The others were industriously inspecting the rest of their kit for the most miniscule specks of dirt, their beds made with almost mathematical precision. Heads bobbed up as they entered, expectant, nervous.

"Right, you lot," Matthew snapped, "gather round, ladies, I have news."

The squad gathered round, uneasy and silent.

"We are officially out of the shit-house," Matthew announced, a palpable wave of relief passing through those before him, "on the other hand we've all got to sign the Official Secrets Act, because we're now officially a _secret_!" He smirked at their frozen faces.

"Was it really that serious, Corp?" one of the lads asked.

"It was really _that_ serious," Matthew nodded.

OOOOOO

Badger looked around nervously as he approached the telephone box, his knuckles white as he gripped his staff Mark II (the death of Mark I being too embarrassing for words), which was actually a broom handle blank. It was the best he'd been able to come up with given the circumstances, and had left him wracked with guilt, Rainbow's accusing glares following him around the camp as she took in his piece of unsustainably harvested wood.

Surely the others must sneak out to do this, he thought as he finally plucked up the courage to open the door. The metalwork was all a lovingly painted and vibrant red, it was even quite clean inside, the phonebook intact, and somebody had even put a bunch of flowers in a jam-jar. This was a loved phone-box; woe betide any bored youths armed with marker pens.

The phone seemed to ring for ages. "Please be in, please be in," Badger muttered, until finally there was a click on the line.

"The Laurels, how can I help you," his mum's voice sing-songed on the other end of the line.

"Err…hello, Mum." Badger winced as his voice squeaked slightly.

"Donald!" Mum squealed down the phone. "You naughty boy, you don't call anywhere near enough. How are you? Are you keeping warm and are you remembering to use your inhaler? Are you eating properly? I know what you young men are like, thinking you can live on just fish-fingers and fizzy pop. Why, when your brother…"

"Mum!" Badger yelled, trying desperately to derail the monologue, "I'm _fine_…I've even got clean underwear on!" He crossed his fingers, hoping she wouldn't spot the lie in his voice.

"Are you sure?" she said suspiciously.

Badger groaned softly. "Yes, Mum. I'm just calling to see how you and Steve are…"

"Your step-dad is just fine, he's gone fishing," Mum began again, "you really must come and visit a few days. I'll bake you a nice…"

Badger tuned her out; he was really beginning to see the appeal of a nice quiet afternoon spent sitting next to a canal with fishing rod and tackle. He should have taken Steve up on the offer while he could.

A rustling in the nearby shrubbery caught his attention, as something large and white and furry oozed out of the hedge. The creature stared at him with its big blue eyes, the tip of its tongue protruding from its mouth. Badger watched in fascinated horror as the large white tiger prowled lazily towards him, obviously fascinated, chuffing and rumbling.

Oh great, Badger thought, I'm going to be a take-away snack for a tiger, all neatly packed and presented.

"ARTEMIS!" the thunderous bellow made the panes of glass in the phone-box rattle. The tiger gave him last look of longing, before pouncing back the way it had come.

"What was that noise?" Mum squeaked down the phone. "You aren't in a night-club are you?" she asked suspiciously.

"Mum," Badger hissed, "_no_, I'm in a phone-box. That was just the…the local lunatic taking his pet tiger for walkies. Why it hasn't eaten anyone yet, I've no idea."

"Tiger?" He could almost feel Mum's scorn radiating down the phone line. "Don't be ridiculous, Donald! It's probably an exotic breed of dog. Do you need to go and have your eyes tested again?"

Badger sighed as he fed more twenty pence pieces into the phone. Why, oh why, had he thought this was a good idea?

OOOOOO

"CLANG…CLANG…CLANG…"

"Ah, it appears to be five o'clock, nearly time for dinner," Dumbledore smiled around the staff meeting.

"Albus, isn't there _anything_ we can do about that _dratted_ clock?" McGonagall complained, rubbing at her temples. "It's absolutely _dreadful_, such a terrible example to the students, glorifying violence as it does, and as for its chime…"

Sprout nodded. "It's not even musical, or even particularly in key. I have a suspicion that, err…Mr Carrow endeavoured to make it as _loud_ as possible. I haven't found anywhere in the Castle I can't hear it from yet…"

"Even the top of the Astronomy tower," Sinistra agreed with a sigh.

"I am very sorry to have to tell you this," Dumbledore smiled merrily, "but we're rather stuck with it. It seems that young Allesandor warded his creation against tampering, including silencing charms, and of course it would be rather undiplomatic to hide it away."

Snape smirked as the other staff joined in the grumbling at this particularly unwelcome revelation.

"Undiplomatic, my hairy backside," Moody muttered next to him. Turning a snort of laughter into a cough, Snape elbowed his colleague in the ribs.

"I've got some suggestions I'd like to run past you for next week's practical," Moody growled out of the corner of his mouth as he watched McGonagall rage about fake blood, appealing to Flitwick to do something about it.

"Please, at least change its colour," she begged.

Flitwick sadly shook his head. "I'm really sorry Minerva, but the way it's been constructed, it would be so complex…"

Snape tuned the inane babble out.

So Moody wanted to pass on news about his two house guests, Snape thought; interesting. "I know we've been considering doing another session on healing in the field. I could get the little brats brewing bruise balm and flesh knitter in preparation…or were you considering the possible offensive uses of potions? I've put together some very interesting research, probably not a good idea to let the Defence Club near it, though." He grinned at Moody's grimace.

A sharp clap brought their conversation to a halt.

"I do believe Dinner will soon be starting," Dumbledore announced to the room, "I certainly intend to see whether the elves have served that rather excellent chocolate and chilli ice-cream today."

As the rest of the staff piled out of the room, Snape and Moody slowly followed, splitting off and making their way towards the Defence classroom, occasional students drifting past on their way to the evening meal.

"No running, Mortimer," Snape bellowed after one particularly annoying Ravenclaw.

"Sorry, sir," Mortimer called over his shoulder as he slowed to a more reasonable pace.

Moody chuckled. "So…offensive potions," he said with a speculative look as they rode a moving staircase over the yawning chasm of the Entrance Hall, "what did you have in mind?"

oOo

The shrunken cauldron bumped uncomfortably against his hip as they slowly made their way through the Forbidden Forest to the edge of the Castle's wards. Inside were the ingredients for the concoction that would form the base for the Dark Lord's resurrection- an event that Snape was very keen to throw a few nifflers into the works of- and, for some reason, a jar of Jolly Joint liniment.

"Any plans for how we're going to explain our little jaunt if we're asked?" Snape muttered to Moody.

Moody grunted in annoyance as he stumbled over a tree root in the dim light from his wand. "We can collect a creature or something for the corridor. Still fine tuning it aren't we, particularly after Minnie nixed the Aqua Regia."

Snape winced at the painful memory. "I'm sure an acromantula or two would spice up one of the trapped rooms."

"That sort of thing, yes," Moody muttered as he limped to a halt. "About here I think," he said, as he pulled a battered copy of the Auror's Handbook from a robe pocket, "hold on, lad."

Snape tentatively placed a finger on the cracked leather; he was not overly keen on portkeys at the best of times, having witnessed the ways in which they could be abused. The familiar jerking behind his navel began pulling him through space in a dizzying whirl as he grimly hung onto the cauldron.

They landed with a bump in a frosty graveyard, an old closed one judging by the weeds and moss clinging to the slate gravestones that stuck higgedly-piggedly out of the ground like neglected teeth.

"'Fraid there's a bit of a walk from here," Moody grunted as he limped off, "I brought as close as I thought could. Don't want to attract any unwanted attention, do we?"

Giving the graveyard a last appraising look, Snape strode after him, a funny feeling niggling at the back of his mind that that wasn't going to be the last time he saw these graves.

"This is it," Moody said, as he clambered painfully over the remains of a barb-wire fence into a nettle filled ditch, "it's the big house over there."

Following him, Snape gazed between the shrubby trees and the looming bulk of the semi-derelict house. It hulked against the sky, silhouetted against the low cloud which shone orange with light pollution.

"So this is Riddle Manor," Snape said as they sidled round the building along a weedy path to a hidden service entrance.

"It is indeed, _his_ father's old home. Been more or less derelict since the forties when the entire Riddle family was murdered, but what with the war and that it was never properly investigated in my opinion," Moody explained as he used his wand to open the plain door. "The DMLE went for the easy explanation and blamed it all on the local nut. He confessed to the crime, even though there were numerous witnesses who told a completely different story, and as for the muggle police…I understand it's a cold case, never been solved…but I think we can make an educated guess as to what _really_ happened. "

The electric light overhead, a simple plain bulb, snapped on, revealing a plain and narrow corridor painted pale green and floored with red tiles.

"Oh, it's you," the elderly man grunted as he glared at them suspiciously from a doorway, "and you've brought a companion."

"Mr Bryce, just bringing the equipment I need for later. We're just going to store it in a room for now, if that's all right and then we'll leave you be," Moody explained.

Mr Bryce shuffled forward, his eyes narrowed. "Payment first," he snapped.

Moody sighed, pulling out a small wad of muggle paper money. "There you go. Should be a couple of hundred quid there. Oh, Severus lad," he turned, "the ointment if you would."

Severus fished the carefully labelled jar out of the cauldron, and passed it over.

"Here you are," Moody growled, "as requested. My partner Mr Snape is an extremely talented herbalist. Made this to his own formula he did."

Mr Bryce grinned, revealing a single yellow incisor. "Just the ticket, better for me rheumatism than anything the doctor's ever given me. Crackin' stuff."

He shuffled away back into the shadows of the kitchen, muttering happily to himself.

"We'll just drop the stuff off then," Moody muttered as he limped his way down the corridor and through a green baize door into the house proper, "and I'll bring you up to speed."

They parked the re-sized cauldron in the corner of a dusty echoing room under a notice-me-not ward. "Don't want anyone falling in, do we? Might never see them again," Moody commented.

"Hmmm, I've seen industrial ones bigger," Snape said, "large enough to need bubble-head charms when cleaning because of the concentration of fumes."

Moody raised an eyebrow. "Really? Who'd need potions on that scale?"

"St Mungo's."

"Ah. That makes sense," Moody said as he limped over to the window seat.

"Aren't you concerned about…" Snape vaguely nodded in the direction of the service corridor.

"No," Moody said as he stretched out his fake leg with a sigh, "Mr Bryce is country folk of a generation that understood about magic to an extent. Knows to keep his mouth shut about it too." He paused, fishing in his robes for his hip-flask. Taking a swig, he sighed. "No, we just need to concern ourselves with _his_ plans."

Snape nodded as he sat next to the older man. "So we have the workings of the ritual, except for _bone of the father_…"

"Which we walked past on our way here," Moody added. "Checked it in daylight," he explained. "Hopefully, we won't get as far as _flesh of the servant_. I suppose I could start hacking bits off the Cabbage, but Carrow seems to want us to keep him whole and unharmed for some reason."

Snape shook his head. "Probably one of his mechanical monstrosities…or black-mail material…"

"So," Snape said slowly, "that just leaves getting _him_ here."

"Simple," Moody growled, "I'll just bring the entire trunk. I've been thinking of getting rid of it anyway."

"So that just leaves Carrow." Snape gave Moody a sideways look. "Did he really say to actually kidnap him?"

"Indeed he did," Moody nodded, "as long as it isn't too realistic."

Snape frowned thoughtfully. "Have you taken into account his weight? I understand he's surprisingly dense for his size, and not just in the head."

Moody scowled. "Damn, hadn't thought of that. Could you ask him? Or should I be asking Faulks?"

"I'll enquire for you," Snape smirked, "I'm not sure Faulks actually knows about this…and I'm not entirely sure what he'll do when he finds out."

Moody huffed and swigged from his hip-flask.

"Well, this is nice…and brat free," Snape cheerfully announced, "but shouldn't we be getting back?"

OOOOOO

"This is ridiculous," Carrow snarled, ignoring Timothy's glare and pointed dig in the ribs. "Well, I'm right," he turned to the smaller man, "this is supposed to be a spectator sport, except there isn't anything to spectate, because it's all occurring below the surface of a windswept lake!"

A couple of nearby students giggled behind their books, Ravenclaw if he was any judge, using their time wisely with extra reading.

Timothy sighed in exasperation. "That is very true, but it's generally considered rather rude to point these things out," he said through gritted teeth.

Carrow blinked. _Was_ it rude? He rather thought that he'd been stating the blindingly obvious. "And how is this supposed to be educational?" he ploughed on, ignoring Timothy's growl. "I suppose it could be interesting if you were studying refraction patterns on water, but that would pall for even the most ardent student after a while."

He considered the matter a moment more, ignoring the increasing number of glares from the organisers and members of staff. "They should have come to me! I would have designed challenges for the competitors that would have really tested their mettle…and there wouldn't have been any of this ridiculous _no-killing_ business either."

"Allesandor!" Timothy hissed. "Pack. It. In."

Carrow gave his fierce stare a wary look, before settling back in his seat with a huff. Timothy couldn't hurt him physically, but he could make his life uncomfortable in other ways. Better to stop before he got stuck doing all his own paperwork.

oOo

"This is a really, really bad idea," Ron hissed as he limped round the corner. What had possessed Moody to trap a corridor with giant poisonous wood-lice he had no idea, but he really wished the Professor would stop channelling Carrow.

"You said that last time," Hermione grumbled as she checked for wards, traps and other potential hazards.

"Yeah, but I think it's an even worse idea this time." Ron grimaced as he followed Hermione up the corridor. "Come on, Ripper…it's the staff-room. So many things could go wrong, there could be something really advanced you don't know how to detect yet. Heck, Uncle Sev could be lurking around…"

Hermione heaved a huge sigh. "Look, it's going to be fine. We'll go in, we'll do this, and then we'll get out," she glared at him, "you just need to keep your nerve."

"Fine, fine," Ron scowled at her back as they slipped quietly through the door into the silent Staff-room.

Ron looked around nervously at the slightly shabby room with its battered chairs, the soft ticking of a clock, and cup-ringed table. A stack of Ancient Runes essays still sat on one end.

"Hey Ron, give me a hand with this."

Ron shook himself, shuffling over to where Hermione squatted by a threadbare carpet she was trying to roll up, hampered by the number of chairs that impinged on it.

"I'm helping," Ron sighed as he moved a heavy leather upholstered armchair out of the way, "see."

oOo

Filch looked up startled. One of his little wards had tripped; and he thought everyone would be out by the lake, watching the second task of that ridiculous tournament.

He had to admit he'd been a little dubious when Bathsheba had shown him the simple warding array, just three runes strung together that could be scratched on any surface. Apparently it was something her family taught its children, an improving magical toy to keep them amused. Compared to the warding arrays used to protect the average wizarding home it was utterly trivial, but for his purposes…

So which grubby little miscreants would he catch red-handed this time? He cackled gleefully to himself as he followed the delicate tug on his magic up the staircase and round the corner.

oOo

Ron cautiously watched as Hermione paced around the chalked circle carefully examining her rune-work, every so often consulting her copious notes and the grimoire Carrow had sent her. Frankly he couldn't tell the difference, the runes were so tightly packed that they had turned into indecipherable scribble in the light of the guttering candles. The items she'd placed at each point were also very similar…

"No rabbit this time," he asked.

"No," Hermione said distractedly, "I got a stunned stoat instead, hopefully that'll help too. I think the rabbit's death was maybe a little too frightening…for the rabbit," she hastily added," and it encouraged whatever that was…"

"The portal," Ron added.

"Quite, it encouraged it to open," she scowled at the last section of runes, "hopefully a cleaner death will make things less volatile."

Ron sighed as she began to activate the runes; he had a horrible feeling this was going to go wrong somewhere. His heart sank as Hermione's head snapped up, her eyes wide and frightened. "Someone's coming," she hissed.

"What?" Ron asked.

"I placed a ward to warn us," Hermione said as she hastily scrubbed through the chalk she had so painstakingly drawn out, killing the glowing embers of magic as she did so.

"Quick, just…just vanish it," she gestured frantically at the remains of the circle as she gathered up her books and notes, thrusting them into her pockets. Ron leapt into startled action, sending the candles and objects who knew where, leaping out of the way as Hermione sent the carpet back with a wave of her wand.

"Now what?" Ron hissed. "We've got to get out of here."

They both turned to the door as the sound of familiar footsteps drew closer, now accompanied by growled mutters.

"Oh Merlin, Filch," Ron breathed. "How did he spot us?"

"Coincidence, must be" Hermione said as she looked around frantically, "quick, this way." She pulled the heavy wooden shutter on the window open and clambered up onto the sill, edging out of sight.

Ron swallowed nervously; now this he did not like the look of. Why hadn't he brought his broom along? Oh, wait, they were up to no good inside a _building_. At what point would making an exit through a fifth story window suddenly make so much sense? Grumbling to himself he followed, pulling the shutter closed behind him, desperately clinging to the craggy stone-work.

He'd never really appreciated just how craggy the castle was before, but he supposed after a thousand years of Scottish weather there would be plenty of gaps and cracks that desperate fingers and toes could be stuffed into. He also hadn't appreciated the way it hurt his bare fingers, or how cold and fierce the winds were that whistled around the building tugging at his robes and stinging his face, making his eyes water…or the fact they were so high up. He groaned in despair as he pressed his face against the rough stone-work. Why hadn't he brought his broom?

oOo

That was strange, Filch scowled as he stared around the staffroom suspiciously. Had he been mistaken then? He shuffled out of the staffroom, slowly crouching down to glare at the three runes he'd carefully scratched onto the stonework and activated a mere hour ago. No, it had indeed tripped.

He stumped back into the staffroom, glaring around him. The chairs had definitely been moved off the carpet that was for certain, he pulled it back with a muttered incantation and a precise flick of his wand to reveal not very well removed scuffed-up chalk marks.

Strange.

The carpet flopped back into place. Something had happened here, and recently, so where had the little miscreants gone? Stalking over he flung the doors of the robe-cupboard open with a dramatic flourish, only to find devoid of occupants other than a slightly moth-eaten green cloak and a pair of pink floral wellies in a size fourteen that nobody was admitting ownership of.

Filch narrowed his eyes dangerously. One of the wooden shutters was slightly ajar, but surely no one was daft enough to attempt to exit through the window, were they? Except if they used brooms…he grinned for a moment; he'd actually started broom-riding lessons with Rolanda and was doing so well he was actually thinking of investing in his very own, nothing fancy, just a Shooting Star, maybe…he was becoming side-tracked.

Whatever had happened here, he was certain the Headmaster would be very interested to know about it.

oOo

Ron was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there were far worse things in life than spiders, though spiders weren't as bothersome as they had been, not since he'd got to kill lots of them, but heights…heights now…he tried to avoid looking down, the sheer drop to the ground far below seeming to concertina away from him, cold hard and remote, his treacherous hands trembling and sweating with effort as they struggled to maintain their tenuous grip.

Swallowing, his throat dry, sweat trickling down his sides and back despite the vicious wind he struggled on edging forward trying to concentrate solely on the black shape of Hermione as she finally made the relative safety of a nearby roof.

The gap between the wall and the rooftop was surprisingly awkward to navigate. He tried going slightly higher, watched anxiously by Hermione, but the wall became suddenly very smooth and crack-free as if it had been recently mended. Swearing, he tried to move back down, his hand slipping as he desperately scrabbled for a handhold.

And then the unthinkable happened, the wall seeming to fall away from him…

He watched it, utterly bewildered even as Hermione's desperate scream reached his ears.

And then he was suddenly moving upwards and diagonally, a stone battlement whacking him painfully in the stomach as he finally tumbled into the safety of the lead-lined gutter. He lay trembling, wondering why his cheeks suddenly felt so damp even as desperate arms prized him up, painfully engulfing…

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" Hermione was sobbing in his ear as she hugged him as if he would disappear. Slowly he patted her shoulder, manoeuvring as much as he could in her tight grip so he could hug her back.

"S'alright. I'm okay," he mumbled, throat so parched it was painful to talk.

He didn't know how long they sat like that, desperately clinging to one another, their little bubble only shattered by the sound of sudden cheering in the distance.

"I think…" he cleared his throat and tried again, "I think we need to get out of here."

Hermione nodded against his shoulder, her grip not loosening in the slightest. Struggling against her steely arms, Ron shifted, his foot knocking against something small and wooden. He looked down; _Hermione's wand_, he thought, scooping it up. She must have dropped it when she'd decided to hug him to death.

"Hey Ripper, I think you might want this before we leave," he said as he offered the wand back.

Hermione flushed scarlet as she tucked it away with a shaky smile. "Your hands are bleeding," she pointed out.

He looked down in surprise; they were more than bleeding. Somehow he'd managed to skin every knuckle, his finger-tips and the palms of his hands, blood sluggishly dripping down his fingers, and mingling with tattered strips of skin.

"Oh…_ow_," he whined as they began to sting fiercely.

"Mine aren't much better," Hermione huffed, holding hers up for his inspection.

Ron winced in sympathy. "Got some Flesh-knitter in my trunk…then Madam Pomfrey."

"Yeah," Hermione winced, "hopefully she won't ask too many questions. I've no idea how I could convincingly explain this away," she sighed.

OOOOOO

Had his birthday come early? He divested the trio of barn owls of their package with more than a little curiosity. He didn't really have a birthday as such, and frankly he hadn't a clue when he'd been born, calendars not really meaning the same thing to the culture that had birthed him. But if he did have one, he'd milk it for it was worth, and of course he'd insist on a cake with a candle for each millennia he'd been alive. You'd probably be able to heat a house with it otherwise, he chuckled to himself as he peeled away the brown paper to reveal a ramshackle cardboard box held together with most of a roll of brown sticky tape.

Sighing, the God-Emperor of Mankind shuffled around in his kitchen drawers looking for scissors, a knife, anything sharp really. Seriously, _sticky tape_, it was the bane of his existence. It was useful, but sometimes…and why did people insist on using so much?

The opened box revealed screwed-up newspaper carefully padding out a stapled together manual, what looked like a draft for a paper, and a rune inlayed mahogany box. It looked like the R&amp;D people had sent him one of the gadgets they'd been working on. Ooh, this was going to be _exciting_!

He had to admit he was truly impressed. He poked a finger through the green glow of the holographic display. How wonderful, and the paper was all about its construction, all the rune-work and arithmancy, the details of getting the microprocessors to not fry…he sighed happily as he poked around in the, he had to admit, rather basic operating system.

And they'd even loaded some files for him…

…the grainy night sky lit up by a temporary comet, defying gravity as it travelled up and away…

The God-Emperor blinked in surprise and pressed play again, watching the rather dark video as the ponderous shuttle rose delicately into the air before surging forward and soaring away; and they'd even sent him all the data so he could see the behaviour of the fusion reactors, the engines themselves as they propelled the _Hammer of Justice_ into low Earth orbit, all the stresses and strains on the structure of the craft, the temperature of the hull, heck, even the flow of air over the hull…everything he could possibly want.

He could already see several places where they could tweak things to improve the _Hammer's_ performance. And who had decided to call the poor thing something so ponderous? Probably Allesandor, it seemed in character.

He sat back, stretching his legs out over the sofa, his feet (and to be honest most of his lower legs) flopping off the other end. Oh, for a longer settee.

What a brilliant and unexpected gift, and to see something he'd helped design behaving just as he'd imagined it would, the pure satisfaction. But how could he thank them?

He gave the mahogany-boxy-magical-answer-to-a-computer some consideration. What if he wrote a better operating system for them? It could only help.

OOOOOO

"It looks like a mobile lingerie boutique," Timothy said as he stared at the Aquila Industries display stand. He had to admit when he'd initially thought of how they would present themselves at this exhibition this wasn't quite what he'd had in mind.

Maria Curtis turned a snort of laughter into a lady-like cough. "I hadn't thought of it like that, but I do see your point." She eyed the tasteful and slender gold arches with their grey baize backboards, the Cadia IV's in all their variations presented on specially designed display stands, polished to a dull sheen, their tiny gilded company logos glinting in the fluorescent lighting of the exhibition hall, while a range of monitors displayed the guns being test fired by a sombre looking man in anonymous green fatigues.

Sitting in pride of place was one of the experimental plasma rifles carefully buffed to a dark sheen, and behind it a dedicated monitor flashing up its specifications. There was even a test-firing.

Compared to the surrounding booths, it was an oasis of style and glamour.

"And the Expo organisers actually passed this?" Timothy asked with a note of disbelief.

"It was a little touch and go for a moment," Ms Curtis admitted, "but I persuaded them." She gave Timothy a small smile.

"It's very plain," Carrow muttered disapprovingly behind them.

Timothy and Ms Curtis ignored him.

"Has the, err…_Vulcan_ attracted any attention?" Timothy nodded his head towards the plasma rifle. "We really need to stop him from naming the products, you know," he hissed at Ms Curtis.

She hummed non-commitally. "At least they're memorable."

Timothy shook his head in disgust, moving aside as a couple of young men in serious looking navy blue polo-shirts pushed past him. "See, look," one of them said excitedly to his friend, "an _energy weapon_! I'm not sure it actually works, but still…"

"Totally Star Wars," his friend breathed, "which company is this?"

"May I help you?" one of the hand-picked (by Ms Curtis) sales professionals seemed to materialise by the pair, and they soon began to talk shop, the conversation drifting into incomprehensible technical details and sales jargon.

Shaking his head, Timothy stepped away. "Coffee?" he asked.

"Oh, would you?" Ms Curtis smiled. "I'd really appreciate it, I'll have an Americano if possible."

"…like that weird space-ship…" one of the young men said.

"No, no," his friend replied, "definitely the Americans. I bet you it was something really hush-hush that Area 51 have been developing. No wonder no one knew anything about it. I wonder if they've got stuff like this too? It would be so cool…"

Timothy felt his face go rigid, Ms Curtis suddenly becoming very interested in her filofax.

Glaring at the Giant Lump, and giving Artemis a friendly stroke, he strode away down the aisle, trying to ignore all the stares he was receiving despite his efforts to blend in. Yes, the black suit he'd had made up at a little tailors on Knockturn Alley was a little Victorian in style, but it was decidedly less war-like that the bloody dolman…so why were they staring? Maybe he should have had that haircut after all. He shoved his fingers through his hair, he'd roughly slicked it back and made his sideburns presentable, but still…

He brushed the thought off, his face a rigid mask as he turned the corner by the Potable Water Solutions display, intent on coffee, preferably on tap.

oOo

"Here you are," Timothy muttered as he handed over the paper cup with its corrugated cardboard holder. "I wasn't sure whether you took sugar or not so I err…just grabbed some." He held up a handful of sachets.

"Thank-you, Timothy," Ms Curtis smiled distractedly, "we've got the "Coming Soon" video up and running. It seems to be garnering some attention." She nodded towards the small crowd of Expo goers and staff from competitors who were muttering excitedly as they watched the rail gun on top of Carrow's hideous tank fire, the shock-wave of the projectile clearly visible as it crashed through the sound barrier.

"Do you think we've got enough?" Timothy muttered anxiously.

Ms Curtis raised an eyebrow at him as she stirred her coffee. "I think we're certainly going to be memorable, hopefully garner some interest too," she smirked at him.

_Just not necessarily in a good way_, Timothy thought, as he watched the possible punters pensively. It was surprising the Big Lump wasn't adding his tuppence worth to their debate, he wasn't exactly shy and reticent about joining in other people's conversations…

"Where's Carrow?" he asked, looking around warily, dread building in the pit of his stomach. How much trouble could a giant sociopathic maniac and his pet tiger get into at a Military Expo? Probably quite a lot.

"He was being annoying," Ms Curtis explained airily, "so I suggested it would be to our advantage as a company if he scouted out the opposition, looked at what else was available, their quality and so on, and reported back."

She smiled with a shrug, ignoring Timothy's increasingly horrified expression. "He went quite happily too. You just need to know how to talk to him."

Timothy groaned. "I'll go and retrieve him, before he manages to blow something up, or commandeers something," he growled darkly.

oOo

This was turning out to be utterly fascinating, Carrow thought as he prowled happily down an aisle, a small wodge of pamphlets and promotional paraphernalia tucked under an arm. He had a feeling he was probably behaving rather like young Felix let loose in a sweetshop full of fish-flavoured confectionary, but he really couldn't help himself; he'd never seen anything like this in his life.

All these companies vying with one another to show off their latest products, all developed independently of one another, producing sometimes radically different results. He eyed a display of footwear designed for jungle conditions and utilising features he'd last seen in Timothy's running shoes that he took such great care to hide (so amusing to slip notes into them too). While across the aisle a different company seemed to be concentrating on making their jungle boots light weight and breathable, whatever that meant. A small part of him was quite certain that "breathable" boots should be purged on principle.

It made his memories of equipment supply within the Imperium look so monolithic. Of course there were local variations, but when you got down to it, especially with the hardware, it was all the same, carefully guarded by the Mechanicus against any tech-heresy, built to pre-ordained and carefully guarded designs, any possible innovation or improvement carefully purged lest it defile the glory of the holy machines.

He shook his head in disgust; in some ways the Adeptus Mechanicus were just as great an enemy of the Imperium as any foul Chaos spawn. Though he could understand some of their reticence; he had once had the opportunity to slay the corrupted machines of the Enemy, foul twisted monstrosities that defied logic, and as for those who dabbled in the works of Xenos…

He growled to himself as he paced down the aisle, oblivious to the other Expo goers as they scattered out of his way; there was no use in thinking of the then when he was so very defiantly stuck _here _with…

He paused as he took in the wonderful sight before him; was that a rotator cannon? How glorious, truly the God-Emperor was just. He surged forward, intent on investigating the glorious machine as it stood proudly on a tripod as if ready for battle. It looked just the right size for him to use as a heavy weapon, he thought as he carefully hefted it in his arms. Not a bad weight, he nodded appreciatively. Now would he feed the cartridge belt from a back-pack style holster or would belt held feeds be acceptable? If only the infernal meat-sack would stop squeaking at him; he turned and glared at the annoying little man as he cradled the wondrous creation of war in his arms.

"Please…could you, err…put it down, Sir?" the man trembled at him, part indignant, part terrified.

Carrow considered the quaking man for a moment with narrowed eyes. He might be literally shivering in his shoes, but he wasn't running away, so he had some spine then.

"Where are the shoulder strap attachments?" he demanded. "I can't see them."

"What?" the little man squeaked, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Was the meat-sack trying to be funny? Or was he unknowingly being obscure? Perhaps another cultural confusion? "A shoulder strap," he growled through gritted teeth, "you know…like a _bag_," he gestured towards a young woman who was clutching a catalogue and complementary carrier bag of goodies to her chest, watching the unfolding conversation with wide eyes.

The annoying meat-sack blinked in bewilderment, stuttering ineffectually, "But, but…but…"

Carrow scowled; what did he have to do to get some coherent, what did Ms Curtis call it, customer service around here?

"Oh, there you are," a welcome voice came behind him and Carrow turned to find Timothy glaring up at him, fishing in the pockets of his jacket for a cigarette. Finally someone who would understand, and he thought slyly, this could very much work to his benefit.

"I've found a rotator canon," he grinned down at his apprentice, "unfortunately it appears to lack attachment for a shoulder strap, but," he leant down conspiratorially, "I can't get the staff to understand. Do you speak their language? Communicate my desires to them, for I must add this…" he hefted the gun, "to my arsenal."

Timothy gave him a long look, rolling his Black Russian from one corner of his mouth to the other, where it naturally fitted into the notch in his lip. "Fine," he finally muttered, "but you do realise the trigger mechanism on that _machine gun_ is configured for someone sitting behind it, and with _normal _sized hands?"

Carrow glanced down sharply at the gun; why hadn't he noticed that before? How utterly embarrassing. He flipped the lovely weapon round to have a better look.

Sighing, Timothy approached the shaking sales representative. "I'll take him away as quickly as I can manage, okay?"

The man nodded nervously trying to peer over his shoulder at the muttering giant as he fiddled one handedly with a gun that had taken three people to set up.

"Right," Timothy continued with a grimace, "so would it be possible to have a custom version made with shoulder strap…"

"I…I suppose," the nervous man craned his neck watching Carrow in fascinated horror.

"…and a firing mechanism suitable for _his_ gigantic fingers," he jerked a finger over his shoulder, cringing at a sudden heavy thud, followed by inhumanly deep muttering. The sales representative frantically shifted from foot to foot, whimpering as Timothy turned to find Carrow had managed to remove the tripod. "Oh for Merlin's sake," he ground out, "put it back together, and put it _down_. You can't have that one anyway, it's a display model."

He turned back to the sales representative with an exasperated sigh. "Sometimes I feel as if I'm dealing with a gigantic child."

The sales representative looked at him as if he were utterly crazy, something Timothy felt was rather undeserved, considering what he had to put up with.

"How soon would you be able to produce it?" Timothy said, trying not to grit his teeth as the young man continued to try looking round him, eyes wide and panicking. "I, err…I…I'll get the manager." He turned looking around frantically, but it appeared the manager had been waiting for just this moment and stepped forward, shooting Carrow a highly disapproving glare.

"I'd like one of those please," Timothy pointed to the poor machine-gun Carrow was still fiddling with, "with shoulder strap and trigger array designed for Mr Carrow. Would it be possible to have it ready before July?" he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Mr Carrow's birthday you see."

Pulling out the silver case he kept his business cards in, Timothy pulled one out handing it over. "We're with Aquila Industries, so we can collaborate with the trigger array if need be," he smiled at the suspicious manager.

The older man looked down thoughtfully at the rectangle of pale cream card with its gilded double-headed eagle. "Aquila Industries," he said slowly, giving Timothy a hard look, "wasn't that…"

Timothy cleared his throat meaningfully. "Mr Carrow is the new owner."

They turned as one to look at the giant man who was now crouched by the machine-gun stroking it lovingly, a disturbing smile on his face. "Heaven help you," the manager muttered.

"Amen to that," Timothy sighed.

"And you have prototype energy weapons," the sales representative squeaked, flinching at the manager's glare.

"Working, field tested prototypes," Timothy confirmed, "but if you want to know more, you'd have to ask our sales staff. I am merely Mr Carrow's secretary…personal assistant…" he trailed off at the sales representative and managers' disbelieving looks. Apparently he didn't look like secretarial material; maybe the suit wasn't smart enough?

Feeling awkward, he turned back to Carrow who was now stalking among the display of machine guns muttering to himself. He narrowed his eyes. "Where's Artemis?" he snapped, starting to look round for the familiar furry predator.

Carrow's head snapped round from where he was leaning over one of the larger guns, looking around frantically as he stood up.

"…_could the owner of the white tiger currently residing at Exhibit 47 please come and retrieve it…"_

Timothy bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to not laugh at the frankly hilarious expression of pure embarrassment that flitted across Carrow's face.

"Well, go and retrieve her then," he sighed heavily, as Carrow stalked off, leather robes flaring around him.

Shaking his head in exasperation he turned back to the sale people. "Where were we?"

oOo

Carrow had actually felt his cheeks heat up in shame; he had for just a moment been inattentive and allowed his feline charge to wander off, the Scout Seargent would tan his hide if he were here now. It was probably a good thing Timothy had persuaded him not to bring Natasha too.

Hopefully Artemis was not in any immediate peril.

He need not have worried; as he rounded a corner, it became clear that Artemis had merely sought out a nice patch of sunshine to bask in, and was now draped along the main gun barrel of the most ridiculous tank Carrow had ever seen in his life, and that was including the ugly things those filthy Tau used.

It was squat, hugging the ground instead of standing tall and proud, and it was severely under-armed, and (he gave the hull a small rap with his knuckles) it was under-armoured too. Who would go into battle inside such a flimsy death-trap? He gave a derisive snort; and you couldn't see the rivets.

_And_ it didn't have sponsons either.

Artemis chuffed in greeting, flexing her claws, squirming and shifting on top of the barrel. He couldn't help but smile at the beautiful creature as he crooned softly to her, ruffling the thick fur behind her ears. She barely protested when he scooped her up and turned to stride off.

At a distance of twenty feet was a crowd of people, Expo goers, staff from various companies, security people, all watching him with wide eyes. Carrow shook his head; all this over a cat.

OOOOOO

"This is bloody stupid," Dean squawked as he ducked a hissing thing with tentacles and poison spines, "why can't we have normal Defence lessons…even Lockhart would be better than _this_!" he yelled as he desperately tried to set the angry plant on fire.

Hermione's expression became even stonier as she drowned the predatory succulent in a deluge of water. "Why is he on our team again?" she hissed at Ron who was busily admiring his handiwork with the Glacius charm.

"Oh…because we needed another person to complete our team, Seamus was already taken, and Lavender said "over my dead body", but with more swear words."

"Well, that's all right then," Hermione huffed in annoyance rolling her eyes as Dean shrieked as the succulent managed to get a grip on his arm, blood welling up where its thorns pierced his skin.

Neville squirted jets of water at the trembling plant, driving it away from his classmate. "Honestly Dean, we covered the Blood-Thorn Succulent only last month in Herbology. They absolutely hate water, since they get all their moisture from the creatures they ensnare, and then they store it in their fleshy leaves and tendrils. They're only found naturally in the Attacama desert, it's one of the driest deserts in the world," he added with a grin.

He gave Dean a reassuring pat on the shoulder where he was slumped on the floor nursing his bleeding arm, cheeks damp with tears. "All I want," Dean gasped," is to have a normal school year for once, with _homework_, and _fun_ and even football if I can manage it. Is that so much to ask?" he stared up at Neville gulping back a sob, "I remember about that class, but it's different when you're actually being _attacked_ by one of the bloody things."

Neville shook his head as he bandaged his classmate's afflicted arm. "And that is why we have Defence classes. Come on!" He hauled him to his feet.

"Your wand." Hermione glared at him icily, handing the battered tool over. "Drop it again and we'll start using you as bait." She turned and stormed off along the corridor, wand held at the ready.

"What's got in to her?" Dean grumbled. "I mean, more than the usual."

"Just acute disappointment," Ron shrugged as he followed his friend.

OOOOOO

"Want to talk about it?" Ron offered as they carefully searched a disused classroom for any possible traps or hidden nastiness.

"Not really," Hermione grumbled, before sighing, her shoulders sagging, "I just feel like I've failed on this task. I've gone at it every way I could possibly think of, researched everything short of full-on Necromancy…but that's only because the Library hasn't got any Grimoire Mortis in it…even in the Restricted Section," she sighed as she examined the hinges of a cupboard for any additions. "I checked," she said at Ron's questioning expression.

Ron grimaced. "If you can't think of a way, I'm not sure I can either."

Faint scrabbling came from the cupboard and they looked at one another. "Ready?" Hermione asked.

Ron nodded, stepping back, and holding his wand up in preparation.

"Guys, there's something in here," Hermione warned, "so be ready."

Neville paused in his examination of a bookcase and came over, feet braced and wand ready, prepared for whatever horrors the cupboard could throw at him.

"Oh great," Dean muttered from where he was slumped miserably in the middle of the classroom.

Hermione ignored him. "On my count, one, two, three…" She flung the door open.

A tide of giant scrambling chittering woodlice like creatures swarmed out, hiccupping acid at anything close to them.

"Oh bloody brilliant," Dean complained as he scrambled onto a desk, "these bloody things again."

Neville threw off a few fireball charms, causing the creatures near him to whistle and pop as they cooked in their own shells, the smell of burning bacon beginning to filter though the room.

Ron and Hermione joined in with blasting hexes and slashing curses, adding the smell of insectile offal to the already nausea inducing aromas in the room.

"Where the hell did Moody and Uncle Sev find these?" Ron complained as he booted a clicking creature back into the cupboard.

"_Professor_ Moody," Hermione sighed, decapitating a creature neatly as it tried to swarm up a chair leg. "And probably some breeding experiment of Hagrid's that he abandoned. You know what he's like with creatures…"

"Too right," Ron muttered darkly as he set another one on fire, "if it's dangerous and flesh eating, then he wants one."

"And if he can get a breeding pair…" Hermione added.

Ron shuddered, firing more curses and hexes into the swarming creatures. "Hey," he said suddenly, "there is something we haven't done."

Hermione looked at him questioningly, before sending an overpowered blasting hex through the swarm, sending pulped creature showering into the air.

"We haven't actually talked to Binns," Ron explained.

"And how would that help?" Hermione asked with a frown.

"Well," Ron tried to explain," he always seems less aware than the other ghosts…almost as if he's stuck in a rut. Maybe he was so stuck in a routine he just didn't notice when he died…"

Hermione stared at him mouth open. "Ron," she finally said, "that is so…something, it's practically genius."

Flushing bright red, Ron grinned at her happily.

"Hey," Dean complained behind them, "can you two stop all the lovey-dovey rubbish and just kill the stupid things already?"

Rolling their eyes in exasperation, Ron and Hermione went back to the slaughter.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Author's Note

Here it is, finally, Chapter 9, the penultimate chapter of my third Carrow story, and it's been an absolute pain in the back-side :-( there's one part which I've actually ended up rewriting three times before deciding I still didn't like it, and so I rewrote it again and changed the character perspective completely. It just went on like that.

All your follows and favourites and reviews kept me going, so thank-you I really appreciated them, every single one. And hopefully this will be better than the last chapter. I know some of you were critical, and frankly I agree with you. It wasn't up to snuff, and it was far too short.

So to a much better chapter. I hope you all enjoy it!

* * *

**Chapter 9**

What a glorious morning, Dumbledore thought as he paused by the Clock of Horrors in the Entrance Hall. Bright morning sunshine streamed through the open doors bringing with it the promise of summer and the smell of fresh growing things, causing the stained-glass windows to glow, twinkling and glinting off the gilding of the awful clock.

It almost made him want to skip for joy, Dumbledore sighed happily, and he had so much to be joyful about at the moment; the Bill, the Right of Inheritance Bill had finally passed into law and the Goblins even now were frantically working through their records, finding lost and obscure members of dead and dying families to inherit Wizengamot seats. The results were going to be very interesting to say the least, and if it broke the political dead-lock between the Traditionalists, his Progressives, and Carrow's lot, then that was all to the good.

Movement by the entrance to the dungeons caught his attention and he slipped into the shadows of the clock. Who could it be, up this early in the morning? Ah, he shouldn't be too surprised; Severus was usually up and about fairly early. It was nice to see him looking so happy and relaxed; the last few years had been very good for him. So at least there was some sort of silver lining to the ominous cloud of Carrow's presence.

And here was another unexpectedly rather wonderful thing, Dumbledore thought, as he watched Severus swoop out of the front entrance. Severus had made some sort of peace with Alastor; he'd even go so far as to say they were becoming friends of a sort, regularly being seen together deep in discussion-though come to think of it, they could be plotting something.

Dumbledore sighed, his good mood dipping slightly. The thought of those two up to no good…he winced. At least most of it seemed to revolve around the Defence classes. Still, he wouldn't be at all surprised if they managed to produce the highest number of Outstandings for OWLs and NEWTs in a century this year.

Humming happily, he strode off in search of an early morning cup of tea.

oOo

Bill Weasley hummed happily as he strolled around the Lake admiring the early morning view, the crisp breeze, the Castle gleaming in the sunshine. It had been a long night working on the structure for the third task. It had started off as a simple maze, but then after the last task for reasons unknown it had been expanded, with protections put in place for injured contestants, an increase in the number and seriousness of the dangers, including a manticore, and then there was what he was working on, wards to stop external interference.

He could understand the concern for the contestants' well-being, but still, this was an inter-school competition, and none of the participants were older than eighteen. So, wasn't it a little over the top?

Rustling from the tree-line drew his attention; some sort of creature? He doubted any students, except maybe the odd extra-studious Ravenclaw, would be up at this early hour especially at the weekend. Unless it was the Defence Club that Ron was a member of, and that Charlie had written about, but surely they'd take the weekends off, wouldn't they?

Apparently not, he thought as a number of sludge-green clad figures emerged from among the trees, festooned with equipment and carrying weapons, streaked with mud and other substances, even blood, pieces of foliage lodged in among the straps of their equipment.

A few of them looked young enough to be third years.

Another series of rustles announced the arrival of another group of students, a couple of the older ones carrying a long pole between them on which was tightly trussed the corpse of a juvenile wyvern.

_Did the Hogwarts's professors know about this?_ he thought, as he approached them with concern; were any of them injured? Wyverns might not be the flashiest members of the Draconis family, but they could still give very nasty burns.

To his intense relief, he spotted Ron looking relatively intact, happily chatting to his friend, that strange Granger girl, closely followed by- Bill blinked in surprise- a juvenile grizzly bear. "Ron," he called, "Ron!"

Ron looked up in surprise. "Bill! What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing?" Bill spluttered. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Ron looked around in puzzlement. "Erm…Defence Club? It's our weekend meeting...we always do this," he shrugged.

The others nodded their agreement, and began to add details.

"…and last week we cleared out this nest of Acromantula…"

"…and I nearly ended up cocooned, hanging upside down from a tree. It was so _cool_…"

"…walked into a grove of sentient mushrooms and got bitten nastily on the ankle…"

"…toadstools, Colin, toadstools…"

"…yeah, them, and it swelled up like a _balloon_ and went green and manky. Madam Pomfrey went _ballistic_…"

"…and then we got chased by a patrol from the Centaur village, and we learnt how to treat arrow wounds…"

"…and then a fully-grown Dire-Wolf leaped out of the bushes…"

"…we're going to have the most amazing grades for DADA…"

Bill listened in increasing horror as the stories became more and more outrageous. "And what about the teachers? Do they know what you get up to?"

"Of course they do," Ron replied stoutly, "we're always supervised by the Defence Professor, or Uncle Se…Professor Snape", he corrected when Hermione jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. "See," he said triumphantly when Professor Moody limped out of the forest, leaning heavily on his staff.

"Good work today, cadets," he growled at the students, "now we just need to wait for Professor Snape…" He stopped as he spotted the interloper. "Good morning," he growled suspiciously.

Bill swallowed nervously under the intimidating stare, nodding politely in greeting.

"And you are?" Moody asked.

"William Weasley," Bill admitted, "I've been helping out with setting up for the third task." He tried to ignore the dissatisfied mutters and grumbles the mention of the Tri-wizard tournament produced.

"One of Arthur and Molly's brood, eh?" Moody said, his body-language slightly friendlier as Bill nodded. "Good people they are. Ah, and here's Professor Snape. Look lively, cadets."

Bill turned to see the feared Bat of the Dungeon, and according to Mum's letters, little Ginny's saviour and new member of the family, swooping towards them with an anticipatory smirk on his sallow face. He'd sent the man a gift at Christmas to say thank-you as a matter of course, but reading Mum's gushing letter and actually seeing Ron's mild hero worship was a different matter.

"And what do you have for me today?" the normally dour man asked with a small grin, rubbing his hands together as the students surged forward with the wyvern corpse.

"Wonderful, excellent condition," Snape purred as he examined the dead creature, "we should get a good price for this."

"Does that mean we can have new swords and war-hammers for the club soon?" one of the smaller students asked eagerly, her friends looking hopeful.

Snape smiled indulgently at the young girl. "Maybe, if you're all very good."

Bill edged away cautiously; Hogwarts had obviously gone completely and utterly insane recently, and sucked his little brother in. Even the teachers apparently weren't safe from it. _Even _the sensible ones. The sooner he was safely back in Egypt in a nice, _sane_ tomb, the better.

OOOOOO

The sound of hordes of small feet and childish chattering stampeded past the office door, closely followed by Mrs Thorpe's strident voice and the sound of unfamiliar adults.

Timothy shook his head as he turned back to the mess of paperwork he'd spread over his desk, even propped in front of his monitor. At this moment he was so frustrated it was tempting to knock his head against the nearest wall. Only the thought of the long-winded lecture he'd probably receive from the English Heritage people about treating original fittings with respect and the problems of colour matching lime paint stopped him.

The DMLE had actually, very reluctantly and with much feet dragging, finally liaised with the Metropolitan Police over the whole white van getaway and the missing girls. The resulting reports had been frustrating to say the least.

The van had been found the next day abandoned behind a take-away. His initial suspicion that it had been stolen had turned out to be correct as the very annoyed owner, a self-employed plumber, had reported it missing the previous week.

The back had been suspiciously clean, with no traces of anything incriminating that the forensics people could discern. It was as if the van had been completely sterilized inside, and how it had been done so thoroughly they were not sure. "Magic," Timothy muttered to himself; a strong _scourgify_ would probably produce an effect like that.

Some vague and grainy CCTV footage suggested that the missing girls had been transferred into cars before being taken away. One of the vehicles, a battered old Rover, had turned up, its interior again oddly pristine and immaculate. In this case, a particularly jarring and strange occurrence, since the car's owner had two Labradors.

The report from the Magical Trace Assessment and Analysis department of the DMLE was hardly any more helpful. The attackers had left precious little in the way of magical traces at the Boarding House, having been careful to use the absolute minimum of magic, only resorting to spell work when the DMLE had stormed the place. Of those live prisoners they had detained, all had been unemployed, living very much hand-to-mouth existences, doing odd jobs (most of them rather shady) as and when they found them, the attack on the Boarding House being yet another one.

So what did they have? He pulled a hand down his face, feeling old and over-worked. He'd tried looking at things from the Magical side himself, tramping round the Knockturn area, earning himself even more suspicious looks and slammed doors than he normally received.

The results of several days' hard slog had been disheartening to say the least. The victims had all been muggle-born or the children of muggle-born (did that make them half-bloods? He'd never been entirely clear), and of course this being the Wizarding World there was hardly any trace of their lives. None were eligible to vote due to their heritage, something he'd been prodding Carrow into correcting. There was the odd unsympathetic employer (_"Muggleborn? Plenty more where she came from. So she disappeared, probably ran away with some man, the little strumpet…_"), worried friends and sometimes relatives, who bombarded him with questions he hadn't a hope of answering, much to his shame.

The frustration of so many dead-ends and unhelpful people, particularly when he _knew_ something was going on, simmering away below the surface. There had been that riot barely a year ago, that Ms Skeeter had diligently followed up on, until it had apparently faded to nothing.

Except the same tensions, the same problems still existed. Nothing had really changed for the average citizen of the Knockturn area, not really. It was all a matter of time till it blew up again…and he had so little time and so much to do, and who knew what Carrow was currently being so secretive about, thought he suspected it had a lot to do with getting his tank decorated to his exacting standards.

Now if only he could clone himself…or something…Skeeter…she'd love something like this, digging around in Knockturn for information, talking to people. She had her own network of contacts as well. Why hadn't he thought of this before…stupid, _stupid_…

He yelped as the desk suddenly receded, glaring around indignantly. Behind his chair stood a grinning Wulfric. "Lunch," the werewolf intoned, "you know…the _noon-day_ meal."

"I really must get…" Timothy's stomach gave a traitorous rumble. "Fine, fine," he sighed, burying his face in his hands. "Is there any coffee?" he asked hopefully.

"Here you go, sir." A smiling Percy handed over a steaming mug.

Timothy took it gratefully. "Thank you, Mr Weasley," He gave the younger man a smile. How had he managed without Percy? He'd made such a difference to his workload already. Now, if he could just find a way to stop the young man panicking whenever the photocopier jammed…

oOo

"Oh, _fiddlesticks," _Bernard muttered softly as he consulted his impromptu and rather pieced together plan of the Lodge. He'd spent the last six months combing the rambling building for this mysterious family chapel and that Anglo-Saxon reliquary with little success, despite his systematic floor by floor search. He was clutching at straws now; why would a family chapel be in a low status area of the house like the Undercroft? No reason at all, but if he didn't check…

He sighed as he walked past the kitchens when the staff were busily preparing lunch in the wonderfully old-fashioned kitchen. It even had a fully working wood-fuelled bread-oven. Down the corridor to the left was a warren of store rooms and offices, full of mummified household equipment and estate records going back to the year dot that quite a few of his colleagues would happily saw their left leg off for just half an hour with. He wasn't even quite sure what the cast-iron contraption in front of him was. It looked like a very early mangle what with its rollers and cogs, but he could be wrong.

This was all very interesting, and he'd even discovered several rooms that he'd hastily sketched onto his plan, but none of it was pointing him towards this mythical family chapel. Sneezing heavily from the dust, he returned his steps back towards the kitchen.

The right-hand turn seemed even less promising, leading him into even more disused storage areas, even darker and grimier than before, and what appeared to be a wine cellar, except there appeared to be a clear path in the dust on the floor. _Somebody_ obviously came this way for something, and regularly too. He pulled out his torch and swung it back and forth, picking up empty racking and cobwebs, a lonely cardboard box and the clean trail on the uneven tiles leading further in to the darkness. _Well, on with the search,_ he thought, as he plunged into the darkness.

oOo

"Come on, _outside_," Wulfric commanded as he poked Timothy down the corridor, "honestly, you see so little sunlight I'm surprised you're not camping out with the Vampires."

Glaring over his shoulder, Timothy stumped along. All he had wanted was a quick snack at his desk so he could dive back into work straight away.

"I'm sure Annie or Caroline would be very happy to share a coffin with you," Wulfric smirked at him.

Timothy gave him one of his nastier Carrow inspired glares as they entered the Breakfast Room. "Has anyone told you just how unamusing you are?" he snapped.

Wulfric just grinned.

The formal walled garden was a bit of sun-trap catching any stray scraps of warmth, and sheltered enough to keep out any unwelcome breezes. _No wonder one of Carrow's ancestors decided to locate the Orangery here_, he thought idly; there were even several orange trees in it now, which had pleased the gardeners no end.

Cook had provided them with corned beef and pickle sandwiches yet again. Timothy sighed as he chewed; very nice to be sure, but it would be nice to have a bit of lettuce or tomato every so often, just for variety. He glanced over to Wulfric. "So what are you working on now?" he asked as Wulfric grumbled to himself.

"Corned beef, _again!_" Wulfric burst out.

"I know," Timothy said sympathetically, "reports for the Embassy too?"

Wulfric flinched mid-chew. "It's Carrow, just best not to ask," he sighed, "so what are _you_ working on?"

Timothy sighed into his coffee. "Nothing very fast…I seem to have done so much tramping about Knockturn to very little result. People I used to know, who I'd chat to, they'll barely give me the time of day now…" he shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's not that long ago I used to live there. It's _ridiculous_," he growled.

Wulfric huffed with laughter, taking a bite from his sandwich. "The problems of being personal secretary to one of the most powerful people in Magical Britain. They're scared of you, you're the Bone Butcher," he shook his head, "seriously, haven't you heard that story of how you impaled a Death Eater with a chair leg? Is it true?" he asked conspiratorially.

"Anyway," Timothy said loudly, trying to hide his embarrassment, "I'm going to get Skeeter on it. I…it's really stupid. I got hung up on doing everything myself and…I wonder if Carrow just let me do that on purpose, an important learning experience for all Apprentices in paranoid pseudo-fascist secret services. Anyway, Skeeter, a set of new eyes and all that. She has ways of digging up information that's just…uncanny."

"Huh," Wulfric said, "so no more swooping around Knockturn like a mini-Carrow. Shame," he chewed his sandwich thoughtfully ignoring Timothy's glower, "do we actually know what Carrow is up to? I mean I'm pretty sure that whatever he's up to it's got a lot to do with the gilded decoration of that blasted tank…and Big Bertha." He grimaced. "Do you think Carrow actually believes he's being sneaky about it? Or is he just letting us believe that he thinks that we think he's being sneaky about it?

Timothy frowned as tension began to gather behind his temples. "_Please, _can we talk about something less stress inducing than the Lump?" Timothy complained_._

He leant back on the bench, eyes closed, tension melting away, as he listened to the lazy buzzing of the bees as they drifted from one lavender bush to another, a Black Russian drooping from his lips, a mug of fresh coffee in his hand. Nearby a blackbird chattered away. Really, could life get any better than this?

The sound of childish chatter drew closer as Felix and his classmates spilled out into the garden, closely followed by Mrs Thorpe and half-a-dozen dazed looking adults. Timothy almost groaned as the children swarmed around with clip-boards and worksheets following the paths around to the ornamental arbour and the small fountain in the middle with the dolphin that one of the R&amp;D witches had charmed in an effort to fix it. Pity it sometimes decided to blow bubbles.

"Mr Faulks, Mr Deer," Mrs Thorpe called as she approached, "are we disturbing you?"

"No, no it's fine," Timothy gave her a crooked smile as Wulfric saluted her with his coffee mug, "we're just catching some fresh air. How is it going?" He nodded towards the small knots of children busily working away, some giving them curious stares.

Mrs Thorpe nodded sharply. "Rather well, I think. Though we did nearly lose a couple of the more inquisitive ones on the second floor." They exchanged exasperated looks. "Almost as bad as Bernard," Wulfric muttered with a sigh.

"Uncle Tim, Uncle Tim," Felix's familiar yell was accompanied by the crunching of gravel and loose shoelaces as he sprinted towards them, black pointed ears perked forward among shaggy hair, tail out behind him like a fluffy banner, his friends following close behind.

"Which bits are Roman?" he asked, ears twitching back and forth. "I thought it was that bit over there with the funny bricks?"

"Don't be stupid, the Romans built in stone," the skinny little boy with blonde hair and too many freckles argued back.

"No, no," Felix's other friend joined, his dark eyes earnest behind his heavy glasses, "they built wooden timber frame buildings and filled them in with wattle and daub. Mrs Kent explained it all, weren't you listening?"

Timothy cleared his throat meaningfully before the little hellions could make their fight physical. They stared up at him sheepishly.

"I think you'll find that the Romans built using all three methods," Timothy began. "Now, if you look over there…" He pointed to a section of the Norman Keep that overlooked the garden. Interspersed among the stone work, low down, were sections of thin almost tile-like bricks. "That is Roman, or at least it's constructed from Roman building materials," he smiled at the trio. The little brats ran off, shouting thanks over their shoulders, intent on having a closer look, still bickering amongst themselves.

"Shoelaces!" Timothy bellowed after them. "I wish I had half their energy," he commented to Mrs Thorpe, who just strolled away with a chuckle.

"Hah," Wulfric snorted round his cup of coffee, "I think that's got more to do with our darling boss."

oOo

Blinking in surprise, Bernard took in the last thing he'd expected. The rather nicely furnished living room even had an open fire and a grandfather clock softly ticking away in the corner next to a set of impressive double doors with linen-folded panels.

"How very peculiar," he muttered to himself as he took in the rather random assortment of knick-knacks and paintings, the assortment of threadbare carpets, an old Dancette on a cupboard, the glass doors revealing an eclectic assortment of albums, and then there was the generous selection of books, a strange melange of old and modern, genres and titles and all sorts of things. He'd never expected to see _The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ nestled so closely to _Lady Boss_.

The spindly side-table caught him surprise and he almost didn't catch the heavy leather bound edition of _Vitruvius, _the sudden avalanche of its companions sliding past his grasp to land with a serious of thunderous bangs on the carpet.

"Oh damn," he exclaimed in annoyance.

"Who are you?" a sleepy and slightly irritable female voice asked behind him.

Bernard nearly stumbled sideways from his crouch as he tried to retrieve the fallen books. Turning, feeling embarrassed, he found a young lady standing there watching him intently from disturbingly red eyes.

She wasn't particularly tall, was rather petite as far as he could tell, swathed as she was in an old fashioned night-gown of white lawn, trimmed with ruffles of lace. Over it she had wrapped a voluminous red velvet dressing gown. Tilting her head slightly, she tapped one slipper clad foot impatiently.

"Oh…I err…I'm Bernard McGuire. I work for English Heritage, assessing the House and that," he smiled nervously at her, proffering his hand.

The young lady delicately shook it. "I'm Annie," she smiled at him, revealing rather sharp canines, "and I'm a vampire."

Bernard blinked in surprise, unsure what to say to that. "Oh," he finally settled on, his mind failing to provide anything more insightful.

"You woke me up," she frowned up at him, fiddling with the thick blonde plait that fell over her shoulder.

"I'm terribly sorry about that," Bernard shifted awkwardly, licking suddenly very dry lips, "you, err…wouldn't happen to know where the Family Chapel is located? I've been having such trouble trying to find it," he smiled hopefully.

Annie yawned widely, one slim hand in front of her mouth. "The Chapel? Oh yes, it's just through there," she waved a hand towards the double doors.

"Thank-you very much," Bernard smiled as he bustled past, Annie blinking sleepy red eyes as he passed. Watching him go, Annie shook her head with a sigh as she shuffled back to bed.

oOo

"I'm sorry to bother you…yet again," the familiar voice of Daphne drifted across the walled garden.

Timothy almost groaned, trying to ignore Wulfric's sniggers; Daphne's worried frown merely confirmed the worst. "He's gone missing again, hasn't he?" he growled round his Black Russian.

Pushing her spectacles back up her nose, Daphne gave them an embarrassed smile. "Have you seen Bernard?" she asked. "The kitchen staff said they'd seen him in the Undercroft pottering around…but it's such a warren down there, and half of it isn't on any of the plans I've seen, and…"

Timothy held up a hand stemming the flow of nervous chatter, his eyes closed in exasperation. He chanced a glance at a highly amused Wulfric.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" the werewolf said with a grin.

"Well, he's either really found the Chapel this time," Timothy sighed, "or," a horrible thought struck him, "he's found the Coven."

Wulfric grimaced.

"Let's go and retrieve him," Timothy called over his shoulder as he strode off, casually incinerating his cigarette butt with a small burst of warp-fyre.

Daphne and Wulfric followed in his wake as he stormed through the house, the school party a distant sound in the background as they were introduced to the delights of the music room.

"Do you remember the time he got stuck upside down in that old dumb-waiter?" Wulfric asked.

Timothy grimaced; he did, _vividly_. Hopefully this was going to be considerably less embarrassing for all involved.

oOo

"You can't miss it…right," Bernard muttered as he eyed the large doors warily. He looked around again warily at the incredible stone hall he had found himself in, like some setting of high fantasy, the soaring arch of the ceiling hidden in gloom, the soft lighting doing little to banish the shadows.

"Well, in for a penny, in for a pound," he said to himself as he stepped forward giving the door a push. Despite its size, it moved smoothly and silently, and Bernard eased himself through the gap, only to come to a stunned halt on the other side.

The huge figure of St George that stood above the altar in all its gilded and illuminated splendour dominated the space beyond, sword raised to smite the monstrous dragon writhing at his feet. But it was the statue's expression of sheer righteous fury, of utter rightness in his action that stole Bernard's breath away, icy fear building at his core.

He stumbled forward, his feet carrying him forward unheeded. It was utterly beautiful, chillingly so; it was also the oddest depiction of St George he'd ever seen.

The armour, he'd never seen armour like that, so heavy and bulky with huge shoulder pads, and the sword was a bit strange too. Wasn't St George normally shown wielding a spear? And where was his horse?

He leant forward, squinting at the dragon, before hastily jerking back from the monstrous creature which was certain to haunt his dreams for the next few months. It wasn't that the, err, _dragon_ was life-like precisely, it was just too _lively,_ if that made sense, as if it were the creation of an artist who had seen things they probably would have been better not to…

Profoundly unsettled, he tried to drag his eyes away, reluctant to turn his back on the thing.

Feeling increasingly anxious in a way he really couldn't explain, Bernard slowly circled on the spot, taking in the rest of the truly sumptuous place. Clearly no expense had been spared when the Potter family had decided to build their private place of worship. It was almost overwhelming in a gruesome sort of way, the dazzling gold decoration, and the rich colours of the elaborate and energetic wall paintings. Warily, he took a second look; the sheer _violence_ of the wall paintings, the racks of skulls…

He blinked in surprise…the _racks of skulls? _Tiptoeing over as fast as he dared, he took a closer look, hastily smothering his gasp of surprise, reluctant to break the close, incense scented silence of this place. A charnel house and chapel combined, a _charnel house_, in this country! He'd read of such places of course, but all the extant ones that he knew of were all on the Continent, and the ones in this country, as far as he knew, had been dismantled in the last century and had all been fairly hum-drum affairs in comparison. Which made this Chapel completely and utterly unique, and therefore of National Importance, worthy of a preservation order, maybe even National Heritage Site status…

"Excuse me," a faint female voice called breaking through Bernard's reverie, "_excuse me!"_

Bernard looked around in some confusion; he could have sworn he was alone, unless maybe Annie had followed him…but no, he couldn't see her anywhere…so who or what?

He sidled cautiously down the side of the Chapel, trying not to stray too near the walls and their creative monsters, the altar piece looming above him in all its megalomaniacal glory. Shaking his head in frustration, he tiptoed across in front of the altar, trying to avoid the gaze of that terrible figure, caught as he was mid-strike. Heaving a sigh of relief as he made the shadows on the other side, he heard the voice again.

"Excuse me…are you still there?" it hissed in the silence.

Bernard sidled along the wall until he came to a small side chapel that was almost an alcove. Inside was a smaller, more personal altar, decorated with flowers and candles, and the Anglo-Saxon reliquary.

"Ah-hah," Bernard crowed happily, almost instantly regretting it, ducking down and looking round, his voice stilling ringing too loud in his ears. No, no he was quite alone, but he still couldn't quite shake the feeling he was being watched by many eyes. The many, _many_ skulls were not helping matters. It was all quite disconcerting.

"Erm…excuse me! You can hear me can't you?" the voice spoke from behind him.

Bernard leapt round with a muffled yelp, his heart hammering in his mouth. Clutching at his chest, he looked round frantically for the voice's owner.

The painting above the altar…he stared open-mouthed as the young woman it depicted leant forward, red hair drifting over her shoulder, her sleeping companion oblivious, as she eyed him carefully. "Hello," she said with a relieved smile, "it's lovely to see someone new. Do you work for my son?"

Bernard silently stared at her, before coming to the realisation that some sort of response might be required. Who was this lady, and who _was_ her son? And was he actually safely in bed, dreaming this whole thing up?

"I work for English Heritage, actually," he finally managed.

"Oh," said the young lady, smiling politely, "that's nice."

oOo

"…mosaics! We think they might be second century, but we need to get an expert in to confirm it, and the most exciting thing is it's a partial room…and there's a blocked doorway!"

Timothy exchanged an exasperated look with Wulfric as Bernard's familiar voice drifted down the Chapel towards them. Obviously the Vampires hadn't mauled him, nor had he become Methuselah's latest victim, forced to admire his growing moth collection. (Timothy did feel slightly guilty about this. On hearing the elderly vampire bemoan the loss of his favourite hobby, he'd suggested the possibilities of moths, and even given him a book on the subject. Inspired by the beautiful illustrations, Methuselah had spent every opportunity the previous summer stalking round the woods with his collection kit and an elderly butterfly net, wearing a straw hat and terrorising the local populations of moths and closing-time drunks alike.)

"I've always wondered what was down there," Lily Potter replied, "we never really had the opportunity to do anything with the family house…what with one thing and another…" She trailed off sadly.

"Hang on, think I might have a picture on me." He rifled through his clipboard. "Here we go," he grinned, turning it round so the Potters could admire it.

"So this was under those mangy old flag-stones," James Potter pushed his glasses up his nose as he leant forward to examine the photocopied image.

Timothy almost laughed as Bernard glowered. "Those "mangy" flag-stones are _medieval_ I'll have you know, and rather rare too, which is why they're being carefully preserved. Anyway," he perked up, "we're thinking of getting radar technology in to scan the walls, see if there are any cavities or the like. It's very exciting!" He bounced on the spot with a happy grin.

Lilly Potter looked thoughtful for a moment, ignoring her husband's puzzled expression. "Radar…you know there are some charms that you could use that would do much the same…if you ask our son, I'm sure he'd let you look at the family library. I'm sure I saw references to such…a derivative of Revelio or maybe…oh, hello Timothy. Goodness, everyone's visiting today," she beamed happily.

The expression of polite puzzlement slid off Bernard's face as he bounced round. "Mr Faulks," he exclaimed gleefully, "isn't this marvellous?" He gestured with both arms to the Chapel around them. "Absolutely unique! I've never seen or heard of a family chapel with an incorporated ossuary in this country before. This will definitely need a Preservation Order, and of course the archaeologists will need to do a thorough investigation as well…"

Sighing, Timothy gazed up at the elaborately painted ceiling with its saints in niches, each one holding weapons or hold relics, all of them watching Bernard with a certain degree of disapproval. He could just imagine Carrow's reaction to the idea of the archaeologists digging test pits in the Chapel floor.

"Mr McGuire," he said gently, "_Mr McGuire_."

The smaller man stopped in full flood looking up at him questioningly, his glasses gleaming in the candle light.

"You must understand," Timothy explained, "this is Mr Carrow's place of private worship, which he uses several times a day. It's not some static, carefully preserved museum display." He sighed at Bernard's polite incomprehension.

"Well of course," Bernard protested, "the Family's needs take pre…"

Scuffling by the doors caught their attention. "What on Earth…" Bernard breathed as the strange procession of robe-swathed golems made their way up the Chapel, swinging incense burners and carrying large fat candles, others displaying holy symbols.

"That time already," Timothy sighed, as he pulled out his prayer book.

OOOOOO

The wall was a little flimsy to be honest, and the ditch wasn't exactly very deep, and frankly he doubted it would keep anything even slightly half-hearted from invading their village, but boy, did he feel good about it. He'd actually managed to get the spooked and suspicious war protestors to finally consider the idea of fortification long enough that they actually acted on it.

Badger suspected it was the normally oblivious Pongo being forced to confront the weirdness that was going on around him that had done it, when he had woken up one morning to find himself and his sleeping bag duct-taped to a tree-trunk about ten-foot up. It had been a right pain in the back-side getting him down too. Though he could be wrong, there had been that kidnapping by "aliens" when Marty had disappeared for over a week and reappeared hysterically screaming things about golden skeletons with animal heads that had imprisoned him in a little concrete room and done _experiments_ on him. Marty had been taken away in an ambulance, and nobody had seen or heard from him since. Badger hoped he was okay, but suspected he'd gone back to his business management degree with a sigh of relief.

So now their camp looked rather like an iron-age village, but with more plastic sheeting and buckets.

And yet still, something was watching him from the bushes; he brandished his broom-handle as menacingly as he could. Whatever it was that was lurking in there, he was going to whack it really hard in the shins.

In a muddy dip he found signs of the local loonie and his pet tiger, a scuffed partial footprint of epic proportions, and a series of paw-prints almost as if the tiger had been dancing around him, prancing in and out of the nettles. Strange animal.

A rustling in the undergrowth behind him had him spinning round staff held ready for action…

"Oh Rainbow, it's you," Badger relaxed cautiously, "are you all right?" he asked after a moment, concerned at her lack of emotional response, the slackness of her face, her arms hanging limply by her sides. Had she taken some bad drugs or something? Rainbow seemed more sensible that that…

The soft footfall behind him was so sudden he barely had time to turn, to get the broom handle up into some sort of defensive position. The wrecking ball that slammed into the side of his head came out of nowhere…

OOOOOO

"…last task of that blasted tournament so of course Professor Moody had cancelled Combat practice," Hermione grumbled, "I can't wait for next week to be over," she sighed hefting her History of Magic textbook into her bag.

"Quick, _now_, before he disappears through the wall!" Ron poked his reluctant friend forward.

Hermione chewed her lower lip, glaring at the ghostly Professor nervously as he droned on in typical soporific manner, announcing the homework for next week.

"Fine," she said, "no time like the present."

As the class all groggily piled their belongings into their bags and piled out of the door, Hermione made her way to the front of the class, Ron close behind.

"Professor Binns," she called swallowing her nerves as best she could, "sir, could I ask you a question please?"

The Professor looked up from his rearranging of phantom parchment in surprise, squinting at them. "Ah, Miss…Davenger, and Mr err…Beasley. How can I help you? If this is to do with the homework, then I highly recommend that you re-read Chapter 8 of your text-book, paying particular attention to the footnote on page 873…" He turned back to the ghostly parchment piles.

"Err, no, sir," Hermione said, desperate to stall the Professor as he began to turn, ready to drift back through the blackboard, "the homework is absolutely fine, not a problem. In fact I'm really looking forward to the research on…" she forcibly jerked her mind away from the topic, her blasted one-track mind, "no, it's…what I meant to ask was…do you like being a ghost?"

Professor Binns froze in mid-float, turning slowly on the spot, staring at them with such intensity they unconsciously took a step back.

"Ghost, you say," he said, staring at them pointedly, "I must admit I have never truly considered the question. I…I'm not even sure why I became one, habit maybe..." He scratched the back of his head in bafflement. Hermione tried not to wince; it wasn't every day you got to see someone's hand through the back of their own head. The last time she'd seen something like that was during the summer, and it had been absolutely _revolting_. She swallowed down the rising tide of bile, dragging her mind back the task at hand. Right…Binns…his _permanent_ retirement.

Professor Binns was squinting at them now, looking them up and down very carefully. "Are you a young man?" he suddenly asked.

"Err, yes sir," Ron said, looking rather puzzled and increasingly nervous, turning to Hermione for help or at least an explanation, but she seemed equally unsure.

"I'm female, if that's any help," she finally settled on.

Binns' frown deepened. "Really? Such short hair, and trousers! Most unrespectable attire for a well brought up young lady!" He was openly glaring at them now, looking more alert and aware than Hermione could ever recall seeing him. She had a suspicion that the Headmaster would probably be thinking much the same if he were present too, and as for the trouser thing, _honestly_.

"Girls have been wearing trousers for years, ever since the Second World War," she huffed indignantly, "it's perfectly respectable nowadays."

"Second World War?" Binns blinked at them. "Do you mean Napoleon? It seems a tad dramatic…"

"No, sir," Hermione sighed, "no…the war against Grindelwald, at least in Europe, but the Japanese were involved. It truly was world-wide and it happened fifty, sixty years ago. It had a massive impact on Magical and Muggle alike."

Binns blinked at them. "Grindelwald?" he asked slowly.

"And of course there was _The War_ which ended, erm, thirteen years ago against the Dark Lord Voldemort," Ron offered, "my parents were part of the Resistance," he smiled proudly.

Hermione nodded. "A terrible and destructive conflict which was ended by our best friend Harry Potter. And what about all the nineteenth century conflicts? I mean the Boer War was particularly nasty, especially once the Zulu got involved. Their traditional practitioners had some really powerful magic that we had distinct difficulties counteracting, and that's before we get on to all the things that happened in India…"

Binns was staring at her open mouthed now, looking utterly stricken. "But…but the text book I selected is the most modern one, only published this last year…I should know, I checked."

"It's newly published all right, a re-print in fact," Hermione ploughed on, "but it's nearly two hundred years out of date. I checked the NEWT syllabus and it hasn't been updated since…well…your death."

"My death," Binns whispered, "but…but it can't have been _that_ long ago…could it?" he said desperately. "Have I really missed so much history?"

But Hermione wasn't taking any prisoners. "It really has, and ever since, the History syllabus has remained unchanged like a fly preserved in amber. It's almost an historical fossil in its own right."

"Do you enjoy teaching?" Ron asked the dazed Professor.

Binns stared at him. "I…it's my duty. I must…"

"You've been teaching for a very long time, sir," Hermione went in for the kill, "several life times, in fact. I doubt _anyone_ would resent you your rest."

"Rest," Binns murmured thoughtfully, "to actually retire…I…" He smiled at them, his ghostly being beginning to glow from within as if he were a cloud catching the rays of the morning sun. "Yes…it would be very nice," he finished, as he faded away into nothing.

Hermione blinked in surprise, "Professor?" she called, not really expecting an answer. "He's really gone hasn't he?" She turned to Ron who was still staring at the spot the Professor had occupied. "_Blast it_! After all that research into Higher Runes and all I had to do was talk to him!" she grumbled. "Come on, we'd best get moving. We don't want to be late for Potions."

Ron jerked in surprise; grabbing his bag, he practically sprinted for the door, Hermione in his wake. "Yeah, mustn't let Uncle Sev down."

OOOOOO

The atmosphere was rather strange as the students made their way down to the Quidditch pitch, part bored resignation, part anticipation; it was the last task, after all. Snape shifted nervously, scowling as he realised what he was doing, causing some third year Hufflepuff girls to giggle nervously. He huffed in annoyance; honestly, he seemed to have lost his edge as a teacher, the little brats just grinned at him nowadays, and laughed at his sarcasm, even when it was directed at them.

"Stop loitering, Granger," he bellowed, "you can read your book when you're in the stands."

"Sorry, sir," her reply drifted back as she pocketed her book.

The knot of Defence Club members ambled past, all grinning up at him.

"Evening Sir," "Evening Professor," "Hello Sir!" they chirped happily at him.

Snape gave them a tight smile; oh, how he missed the good old days when he could storm around the school, spreading fear and trembling in his wake.

"All right," Moody growled from the growing shadows beside the stair tower.

"Indeed," Snape gave him a curt nod, trying to ignore the sudden jolt as the butterflies in his stomach redoubled their efforts to get out. For Merlin's sake, he'd done things like this before, probably far more dangerous things than this, though he couldn't remember exactly what. Grow a spine, he mentally berated himself as he followed Moody up the creaking steps.

"Everything set?" he ventured to Moody's back.

Moody grunted. "So far so good, which probably means it's going to go like a fire in a fireworks factory."

Snape winced, his nerves jangling incessantly as the bone-vibrating voice of Carrow drifted down the stairwell towards them.

"Luck of Merlin," he muttered.

Moody snorted derisively as he hauled himself painfully up the last few steps. "I make my own luck, lad."

oOo

Carrow was up to something. Timothy glared up at his enormous employer. He doubted anybody who didn't know the man would spot it, the set of the broad shoulders, the overly innocent expression. Anybody else would tell him he was being overly paranoid, but there was just something off. Carrow had been far too well behaved this evening, had even agreed to leave Artemis at home, (last seen squirming in a patch of sunlight in the long gallery while the textile restoration people tiptoed around her and the carpet expert very quietly had an apoplexy about tiger fur being ground into the antique carpets). In fact, he had settled down into polite conversation with Headmaster Dumbledore with a complete lack of grumbling, whining or other symptoms of pig-headed obstinateness.

It was _disturbing_. He glared at the other man's broad back, the old embroidery of the black velvet robe glinting softly in the dim light, parts of the sleek dragon-hide armour and the hilt of his power-sword peeking out from underneath. Carrow was the only person he'd ever met who had "casual" armour and felt naked without weapons. Though he hated to admit to himself, but he was actually starting to see what the annoying man meant with that last one. He gave the Browning and his sabre a comforting pat.

"Okay?" Wulfric elbowed him gently an edge of concern in his eyes.

Timothy nodded curtly, watching the small fire-flies of light begin to appear over the stands as the sun dipped below the horizon, the happy chant of "What do we want? QUIDDITCH! When do we want it? NOW!" slowly fading away.

"Welcome, welcome," the voice of the organiser echoed over the stands. Buggman or Bagman or something, Timothy thought; he was definitely from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, an ex-Quidditch player if he remembered correctly, gone very much to seed.

"_Welcome to the third and final task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament,"_ Bagman bellowed to half-hearted cheers from the jaded audience that quickly died down. Bagman's amplified and very put upon sigh caused a ripple of laughter to spread around the stands.

"_And what a tournament it has been, with such spectacular performances from all our contestants. Now, let's review the scores…in third place on twenty five points, Ms Fleur Delacoix of Beuabatons."_

Timothy joined in the polite applause, already resigned to the dullness of the evening. A maze of tall dense hedges in the dark, wonderful.

"_In second place with forty points, Mr Victor Krum of Durmstrang."_

The cheering was more enthusiastic this time for the young professional seeker, and he was very talented indeed, Timothy thought as he clapped his hands.

"_And finally in FIRST PLACE with forty seven points, Mr Cedric Diggory of…"_

The screams and cheers drowned out Bagman's voice as students draped in black and yellow jumped up and down on the benches, waving banners with animated badgers proclaiming such things as _"Huff for Hufflepuff," _and _"Dig-gory for Victory."_

Timothy shook his head in amusement, it was nice to see the Badgers get a taste of the limelight for a change.

"…_second lead,"_ Bagman had continued talking through the Hufflepuff enthusiasm, _"and so LET THE TASK BEGIN!"_

A thunder-crack reverberated around the stands, and a tiny mote of light sprinted towards the looming gloom of the hedges that now dominated the Quidditch pitch, promptly and predictably disappearing as Diggory made his way into the maze.

Wonderful, Timothy thought as a chilly wind began to pick up, this was going to be even more cripplingly dull than watching the Lake for two hours. At least it had been daylight; he'd even managed a little bird watching, something he hadn't done since before Hogwarts.

To his surprise, Wulfric appeared to be watching the maze enthusiastically through omnioculars.

"You can't possibly be able to see anything through those," Timothy grumbled at him.

"Course not," Wulfric grinned, not looking away from the omnioculars for a moment, "I took the trouble to record our last sparing session. Got Methuselah to help. I figured this was going to be on a par with watching paint dry so I came prepared." He gave Timothy a grin.

Timothy held his hand out. "Come on, hand them over."

oOo

"…favours that left-hand parry," Wulfric pointed out, enthusiastically waving a hand.

Timothy nodded slowly as he reviewed the footage yet again, rewinding it and watching himself in slow motion. He hadn't realised how much he tended to fall back on that particular defence. Should he correct it or devise more responses to attempts to take advantage of it? Maybe both, considering how sneaky some of the Vampires could be; Caroline was _particularly _unpredictable.

"Look how you distribute your weight," Wulfric continued, Timothy nodding absently. He did tend to place more weight on the back foot; he'd had an idea that he could add kicks in or the like, but if someone tried to sweep his feet out from under him…

"Hey, where's Carrow gone?" Wulfric asked.

Timothy's head snapped up so fast his spine popped. Cradling the back of his neck, he stood up, urgently looking around the stands. In the darkness, they were peppered with glowing lights as students entertained themselves in the chilly evening, ignoring Bagman's commentary almost completely. The girls on the bench in front of them were playing gob-stones, their wands tucked behind their ears acting as impromptu head-torches.

But nowhere could he see any indication of Carrow's huge form. How could someone that big just disappear? So the Lump had snuck off somewhere; best to catch him before he started a one-man war with the Centaur Herd in the Forest. Sidling along, he had one last look around the stands before rushing down the stairs, Wulfric clattering after him.

As he made the last turn, he spied the familiar billow of a black robe just darting round the corner. "Professor Snape," Timothy called out as he practically fell down the stairs in his haste.

Snape put his head round the corner, his eyes glinting in the light of the Everlasting candles. "Mr…Interrogator Faulks and Mr Deer," he greeted them impatiently.

But Timothy didn't have time for social niceties. "Have you seen Carrow?" he demanded.

Snape twitched, his eyes flicking to the side, shifting guiltily.

Timothy snorted as the Potions Master backed away slightly. "I'm not supposed…this is just between the Senior Undersecretary and us…" he stuttered uncharacteristically, "I can't tell you."

Timothy gave the man one of his best Carrowesque glares, advancing on Snape slowly, his hand gripping his sword hilt. Snape backed away, swallowing nervously, instinctively palming his wand.

"And I'm the Senior Undersecretary's _secretary_," Timothy growled, "and when he causes trouble it's my job to pick up the pieces."

Snape glared at him, his eyes scanning their faces nervously. "Fine," he snapped, quickly casting a privacy charm, "I don't like this one bit, but…the Dark Lord, he's trying to come back…regain a body. That's what this is all about."

Timothy exchanged looks with Wulfric; this was not good at all and with Carrow involved…

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully; of course Carrow would jump at such an opportunity. "Right, I'm in." He glared at the Potions Master, daring him to object.

Snape glared back. "You do realise I remember you as a snivelling little firstie away from his mother for the first time in his life?"

Timothy raised an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed.

"Fine, fine," Snape snarled, "I'll have to side-along you. Well?" he snapped when Timothy hesitated.

Timothy turned to his partner. "Wulfric, you need to stay and keep things under control here."

"_What?_" the werewolf whined, looking utterly crestfallen. "Why do I always get stuck with the boring jobs?"

Timothy ignored him, grabbing hold of Snape's arm. "Stay," he commanded, pointing at the ground.

"You're not funny, you know," Wulfric glared at the two smirking men as they disappeared with a pop of displaced air.

oOo

The students didn't seem to be taking much interest in young Ludo's commentary, Dumbledore thought, though at least they were managing to entertain themselves _quietly_, and talking of quietly, Allesandor's usual litany of grumbling was oddly non-existent. He turned to check on the shockingly large man, only to find his seat empty.

Oh dear, maybe he had gone to stretch his legs a moment; the stands weren't really designed with the comfort of the over-seven-feet in mind. Maybe Timothy could clarify…ah…

"Albus, is everything all right?" Minerva whispered urgently from his left, watching him with concern.

Dumbledore gave a small smile. "I believe so, but it appears young Mr Carrow has disappeared somewhere, and so have his staff. I'd best investigate before he has an unfortunate disagreement with the Centaurs or some such."

"Humph," Minerva glared over the darkness of the Quidditch pitch, "and that'll be the least he gets up to, mark my words," she muttered darkly.

oOo

It was with some surprise that Dumbledore encountered Wulfric Deer alone on the stairs down; the normally cheerful man seemed quite distracted too, his expression turning almost guilty when he took in just who was coming down towards him.

"Mr Deer," Dumbledore nodded to him with a pleasant smile, "I hope you are having a pleasant evening."

"I err…Headmaster Dumbledore," Wulfric stuttered with a sickly smile, "I err…didn't see you there."

"You wouldn't have happened to have seen Mr Carrow at all?" Dumbledore asked politely, certain he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Errmm…" Wulfric shifted nervously.

"I think it would be best if you told me what has happened," said Dumbledore, looking at him sternly over the top of his glasses.

oOo

Crouching instinctively, his Browning in his hands, Timothy took in his surroundings. It appeared they had landed in a graveyard, the oldest part of one too, considering the unloved look of the nearest graves. Snape strode past him, intent on the distant glow of a fire, flitting from shadow to shadow. So Timothy followed, ducking behind the funereal masonry and crawling past bushes, rambles catching at his great coat.

Hunkering down behind a plinth that supported an ivy covered urn and a pair of simpering cherubs, he peered through the undergrowth, letting his eyes adjust to the light of the fire.

That had got to be the largest cauldron he'd ever seen in his life; in fact, if he were a cannibal it would just be the right size for a nice boiled…right. He squinted, peering into the flickering shadows around the cauldron, the delicate haze drifting off the cauldron further impeding visibility. Was that…a chair? It seemed to have a sort of bundle of blankets taking shelter on it.

Strange.

The bundle twitched. Timothy froze, eyes narrowed, the muzzle of the Browning coming up automatically, as his Carrow honed senses all screamed at him that something here was terribly wrong. Was that what he thought it was?

The sheer intensity of the waves of foulness coming from the direction of the chair were incredible, and oddly familiar. Now, where had he come across them before? No wonder the Wizarding World had done a credible impression of a doormat when Voldemort had burst on to the scene.

The familiar crack of a port-key heralded the arrival of a windswept looking Moody clinging desperately to a leather belt, the buckle end of which had been looped around Carrow's wrist. Carrow looked almost as irate about the whole thing as Moody and, before Timothy could even think of intervening, he had expressed his feelings by punching Moody in the head.

Moody crumpled slowly to the ground in an undignified heap, Timothy watching, jaw clenched. It looked as if Carrow had pulled his punch, but even so, that was going to leave one hell of a bruise. What now? Had that been part of Carrow's clever plan? Or had he merely acted on impulse?

oOo

Carrow quickly looked round as the retired Auror crumpled to the ground. Snape was in place hidden among the trees, and there crouched behind a particularly ugly funeral sculpture was Timothy, his pistol drawn and ready. Carrow smiled to himself; this was unexpected but welcome. Timothy was a worthy apprentice.

And now to finally deal with this Throne-cursed "Dark Lord". He turned to the nearby chair with its quivering bundle of blankets, the Purgatis of St Seraphim rustling as it poured out from under his robe, ready to destroy what un-holy thing had dared stand against him.

Suddenly reaching out, he grabbed the corner of the blanket and tugged, its contents sprawling to the floor with a pained yelp, clutching desperately to a battered wooden box.

The creature, a hastily made flesh golem, stared up at him with wide eyes, inhumanly red, eyes slit like a cat.

Carrow smiled cruelly down at this pitiable creature. "I, Inquisitor Allesandor Carrow will bring you to justice in the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, and it will be swift and _terrible_."

The construct looked up at him eyes wide with outrage, fearful and angry. It looked around desperately, its bony little fingers trembling where they desperately clutched the wooden box.

"You," it hissed a note of disbelief in its voice, "Ministry lackey and enemy of Lord Voldemort…Crouch, _you fool_! This is obviously some plot by the DMLE to ensnare you, get rid of it…whatever it is! DESTROY IT, YOU IDIOT!" the tiny figure screamed as it bounced with rage.

Out of the corner of his eye Carrow could see Moody climbing slowly to his feet, brushing off the odd dead leaf as best he could. Now this was where things would start to get interesting.

"Well, see," Moody said slowly, staring intently as the little monster with his horribly mismatched eyes, "thing is, I'm really Alastor Moody, have been since Halloween. We switched places," he smirked, "your lad's been lying down on the job."

Voldemort's eyes bulged as he stuttered incoherently.

Ignoring him, Moody turned to Carrow. "Your orders, sir?" he asked.

"Now we destroy this…_Dark Lord_," Carrow sneered down at the pathetic creature which was now frantically trying to shuffle backwards on spindly ineffectual legs, muttering frantically to itself. It didn't look particularly dangerous, but appearances could be deceiving, and the one thing he really detested were surprises he hadn't arranged himself. The sooner it was put out if its misery the better.

Fumbling frantically at the box, Voldemort finally managed to undo the clasp, jerking open the lid with a cry of triumph.

The foulness in the air, unpleasant before, became utterly oppressive. Moody clutched at his stomach, a hand over his mouth as he tried to control his retching. Even Carrow winced; this was suddenly extremely dangerous.

Voldemort took no notice as he eased forward to intent on the contents of the box, pulling it out and examining it the flickering light of the bonfire. The gold collar was rather plain, its only ornamentation an engraved inscription, but just the sensation of looking at it make Carrow's eyes feel dirty.

"Don't," Carrow said softly as the golem made to put the foul object on, "if you do that, there will be no turning back, not from where _that_ will take you."

Voldemort looked up at him with crazed eyes. "I have no choice. I'm going to die, aren't I? What difference does it make?"

"All the difference in the world," Carrow sighed as he looked at the pathetic creature in front of him, grasping the disgusting object to its chest, resembling nothing more than a cornered sump rat. "There are far worse fates than death. This is one of them. If you die now, your immortal soul will go before the God-Emperor for judgement, an opportunity for redemption. If you put that thing on, you will wish you _had_ died."

Voldemort stared up at him, his artificial body shaking, his eyes filled with panic and anger. "No, _no, _NO!" he screamed, a tear trickling slowly down his cheek. "No, no," he sobbed, frantically shaking his head, snapping the collar open, "I was promised power. I was so much better than all those _dullards_ at Hogwarts, their superior in every way, intellectually, _magically_. I was destined to rule them, and I did it too, clawed my way up through the social ranks of Slytherin. And then I met _them_. _They_ promised me power over the entire _world_, and I sacrificed _everything_ for it…_my entire adult life, even my humanity_…and then that little brat came along and ruined everything!" he screamed as the collar closed around his neck with a small click.

The world stood still.

An expression of pure gut wrenching terror passed over Voldemort's face as he opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Instead _something_ came crawling out of his mouth into the night, an impossible thing with too many limbs, long, spindly and many jointed, bristling with razor sharp hairs, crazed inhuman eyes gleaming acidic green in the flickering light.

"_Help me…" _its inhuman mouth whispered, "_help…"_

There was the sound of tearing flesh and the terror stricken gleam in the eyes of the distorted and deformed golem finally faded to nothing.

Wriggling and thrashing, the daemon pulled its bulk through the small orifice, the golem's body seemingly turning inside out in a series of teeth hurting crunches and snaps, foul liquid seeping on to the grass beneath it, the ground smoking and hissing at the corrupting taint, the foul abomination screaming in triumph as it finally pulled itself free from its confinement, smoke streaming from its hideous bulk into the night sky.

With a hiss it ducked down, legs tensing as its vicious eyes took in the living before it, mouth spread in a toothy and spiteful smile. It sprang forward intent on its prey, those warm and helpless souls that stood before it.

Carrow dove sideways, grabbing Moody and bodily throwing him clear of the Daemon. Even if the old Auror's landing was fatal, it was still a far better end than anything this foul monster would give him.

Drawing his power sword, he activated it with a bellow of rage, its corona of blue energy lighting up the night, slashing at the limb that threatened to crush him into the ground. Cursing his lack of power armour, he dodged to the side, his back-hand nearly catching the thing in a leg joint as it skittered back out of his reach. He followed, hacking, slashing and parrying in a dizzying dance of violence to fast for the human eye to follow, as he concentrated on the Daemon's weak points, its pale under-belly, its luminous eyes, the joints of its spindly legs, the Purgatus shimmering around him, a moving blessed shield.

The daemon-form skittered and skipped out of his way, stabbing with its fore-limbs, head darting in to snap at him with its wicked teeth, its reeking breath rolling over him in stinking waves.

Gunshots and slugs of spell-fire whistled past him as Timothy and Snape added their weight to the battle, harrying it as best they could.

With a savage lunge he punctured an eye, his blade crackling and hissing angrily as it sliced into the tainted flesh. The Daemon screamed in pain and rage, jerking back so hard it nearly pulled the power sword from his hand. At his will the Purgatus hissed forward tangling around the thing's neck and forelimbs while it desperately clawed at its face.

Crashing forward, it flung a forelimb up, catching him heavily in the chest and sending him crashing heavily to the ground before turning its attention elsewhere, to the small and annoying little hornet that stung it with silver.

Rolling to his feet, Carrow swarmed forward, even as Timothy drew his sword, desperately firing his pistol up into the Daemon's face snarling face, screaming defiance. His stand before such an enemy was commendable but dammed to failure. The Daemon raised a limb, its tip ending in a razor sharp claw that glinted in the faint light for a moment, before plunging down.

The howl of pain ripped through the night as Timothy staggered backwards clutching at his face, his gun slipping from his grasp, unaware of the terrible danger he was in as Carrow threw himself between his Apprentice and danger. Batting a slashing limb away Carrow struck back hard and fast at the furious creature as it struggled free from the burning touch of the Purgatus, hissing angrily, opening up an oozing gash along its belly.

And then the unthinkable happened.

A striking limb punched down, slashing through the dragon-hide armour like wet paper. _That would never have happened with ceramite_, he thought, before his world dissolved in pain.

oOo

Cold ran down Timothy's spine as Carrow slowly tumbled to the ground, his power sword still firmly in his grasp.

"Allesandor," he shouted as he surged to his feet, his own injuries forgotten. Screaming incoherently, he threw ball after ball of warp-fyre at the nightmare creature before it could deliver the killing blow.

Carrow's stomach was an undefinable mess in the darkness glistening and oddly lumpen, a mess of torn armour, shredded robes and other more biological things.

"Quick, fiend-fyre!" Timothy bellowed to the others as he pulled out his wand. To his left he heard Snape's voice calling out the incantation, a wash of flaming animals storming towards the dark and shadowy monsters that had done such unthinkable damage. Quickly he added his own, watching with dark satisfaction as the nasty thing cowered and screamed as it tried desperately to avoid the spectral touch of the flaming dragons, gryffions and serpents.

A third stream of flame joined their efforts, and Timothy's heart gave a happy jolt. Moody was alright…or, he hoped it was Moody.

Scrambling backwards in an undignified rush the monster screamed and hissed, huge black wings unfolding from its back. With a powerful surge it leapt into the air, the backdraft of its wings sending them to the ground as blasts of foul magic and stench sent them sprawling to the ground, and then it was gone.

Slowly, Timothy rose from his crouch, blinking the remaining dazzle from the fiend-fyre, shaking his head to try and clear it. He scrambled towards the fallen form of his mentor.

"Allesandor," he asked desperately, "Allesandor?" He felt along the other man's neck, desperately trying to find a pulse, hindered by the ridiculous gorget. Fumbling, he undid the catches, pulling the front half of the embossed dragon-hide away, scrabbling as he tried to remember his basic human biology. It was the carotid artery wasn't it? Did Carrow have one any way, what with his wacky physiology?

There, he could just feel it, Carrow's strange double heart-beat, more rapid than normal, but _there_. He let out a relieved huff that sounded more like a sob to his ears.

"Oh Merlin," Snape whispered behind him.

Timothy twisted round to find the Potions Master standing there, a battered and bruised Moody leaning heavily against him. At least something had gone all right this horrible evening, he thought as his spirits lifted ever so slightly.

"Hah," Moody exclaimed, "looks like I'm better off than the giant pain-in-the-backside. You need to get him to a Healer lad, before his innards go black and runny. I know what I'm talking about…and I thought having my wooden leg break was bad. Stupid spare one itches like a bit…"

"You need to get him back," Snape interrupted, "do you need assistance?" he asked as he eyed Timothy's fumbling attempts to retrieve his emergency port-key from his pocket.

"No, no I should be…I should be alright," he muttered as he wrapped the chain of the port-key around Carrow's wrist, clasping it firmly between their hands. "Thanks," he gave them a strained smile, "Sanctuary!"

oOo

The night was quiet, the trees of the Forest stirring, their leaves rustling in the breeze, a thestral foal tucked itself closer to its mother. A loud crack rent the air…

"Damn," Snape complained loudly as he helped his limping partner, "left any bits behind? I don't think I've splinched myself, a miracle if you ask me."

"You'd be surprised what you can do given the right incentive," Moody growled as they hobbled towards the distant Castle, their path leading them past the now dark and silent Quidditch pitch.

"Huh, so we missed it," Moody muttered as he hobbled along. They'd attempted to mend his wooden leg with little success thanks to the complex of charms that had been integral to its structure. "Not that we probably missed much," Moody complained.

"Wonder who won," Snape said, "I've got a little bet on with Minerva, a galleon on Diggory for the win. He's done rather well for a Hufflepuff, certainly more impressive than that French girl. Nearly set herself on fire with that dragon, the idiot," he sneered.

Moody grumbled in agreement as they staggered past the Quidditch pitch on their way up to the Castle. A shadow detached itself from beside one of the stair towers.

"Good Evening gentlemen," Dumbledore said mildly as he blocked the path, his face illuminated sinisterly by the light of his wand.

Quite unconsciously Snape and Moody moved closer together as the elderly Headmaster stared at them cooly over the top of his glasses, suddenly realising just how grubby and battered they must currently appear, just how tired and dazed they felt. Snape winced slightly as a cut on his cheek he'd been hither to oblivious of began to sting.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow sarcastically.

The two men shifted uncomfortably; how in Merlin's name did they explain this?

oOo

"…they were both injured but Faulks had an emergency port-key."

Wulfric froze in his spot, hidden in the deep shadows of one of the massive supports of the Quidditch Pitch. He'd hung around after the Tournament had finally ended (and wasn't that a relief) because surely they'd have come back for the end, such as it was. So something must have gone wrong, delayed them. But this was the Big Guy who was practically invulnerable and laughed off vampire bites and other such minor annoyances, so the idea of him being hurt….and Tim too…

He risked a glance at the familiar silhouettes of Snape and Moody hunched uncomfortably next to Albus Dumbledore, the fresh breeze blowing off the lake bringing with it the scents of sweat and stress, fear and blood to his delicate nostrils.

Oh _hell!_

He began to slowly back away, he had to get back to the Lodge make sure they were all right. He _knew_ he should have gone with Tim. Next time he wasn't going to listen to the idiot.

He reappeared in the entrance hall of the Lodge with an unprofessionally large pop, causing the assorted family portraits to glare at his as he sprinted past, intent on the Undercroft and the Training Hall.

He skidded to a halt, taking in the awful sight laid out before him. Healer Slaughter kneeling beside the enormous and still form of a semi-naked Carrow, his arms and healing robes splattered with Carrow's weird too-red blood as he worked elbow deep on something inside the man, Edwin and Charles assisting him, for once silent and focused. A distressed Fawkes of all things perched on Edwin's shoulder, chirping sadly. Was the crazy bird actually _crying_ into the gaping wound? He'd heard that phoenixes did that for people they particularly approved of, that their tears had healing properties. He never thought he'd get to see though. On second thoughts, he winced as Healer Slaughter started tugging at something yellow and lumpy in Carrow's insides, he wished he'd never had the opportunity to witness it.

"Will he be alright?" he asked feeling slightly stupid afterwards.

"Well sure," Healer Slaughter snarled distractedly, "as long as the idiot's innards don't go black and runny."

Wulfric winced. "Right," he muttered.

But where was Tim? He looked around frantically. There sitting on one of the benches was his sort-of friend, Annie and Caroline glaring at him while they patched him up.

"This is why you need us," Caroline was snapping, "we have those sun-proof suits after all."

Annie nodded furiously. "Exactly. You went off and had too much fun without _us_. That's completely unreasonable, and unfair!"

Timothy just nodded his head vaguely, wincing at the movement, the parchment of the letter he was reading crinkling in his hands.

"Tim," Wulfric gasped as he took in the gory mess of his friend's face, "oh hell, what have you done to your face?" he moaned. Where was his _eye_? Wulfric's stomach lurched nastily.

Timothy looked up at him blinking his one good eye, as Caroline attempted to clean the mess that was the right hand side of his face, "I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks," he waved the letter vaguely, "there's some things I need to do. Headmaster Dumbledore is on the war-path…I need something to write on, a pen…" he glared up at Wulfric. "Quickly," he snapped when Wulfric hesitated.

Turning, the werewolf stormed off to the Medical Room. Slaughter always had some spare parchment hanging around in his office. What was Tim up to? Returning, Timothy practically snatched his offerings from his hands, feverishly writing something despite Caroline's protestations at his moving too much.

Folding the parchment carefully, Timothy wrote the address on the front, ignoring Wulfric as he leant forward to see.

"Johann Schmidt?" Wulfric asked. "Isn't that Carrow's "friend" in Switzerland?"

"Fawkes!" Timothy bellowed, causing the phoenix to look up indignantly. "I've got an extremely important message for a Professor Schmidt in Geneva, Switzerland…" Fawkes perked up at that, suddenly very interested, "would you take it for me? I think he can help Mr Carrow. I'm pretty certain he's the only person on the planet who fully understands Mr Carrow's biology."

Fawkes flew over in a flurry of golden feathers, taking the letter and disappearing in a blaze of fire.

Timothy took a deep breath before hauling himself to his feet, ignoring the lady vampires as they tried to make him sit again. "I'm going to the Ministry. I've got to. There are things that need to be done." He heaved a deep sigh.

"Don't be ridiculous," Caroline snapped at him, "the amount of blood you've lost…"

"This is serious, there's too much at stake here!" Timothy shook his head, causing Annie to growl at him as she tried to finish bandaging his head, standing on the bench to reach.

"Honestly, I'm fine," he growled at the surly vampires as they glared at him.

Wulfric eyed the filthy blood encrusted dolman and the shirt that was so heavily stained with the man's vital fluids even the house-elves would give up on it as a bad job.

"All right," he said slowly as Timothy stalked past, "but I'm coming with you too."

Timothy glared at him over his shoulder, flinched as he realised his new inability, and turned round to give Wulfric the full benefit of a proper, though one-eyed glare. "Fine," he snapped, "but you'd better not interfere."

Wulfric sighed as he loped after him; he was never letting him out of his sight ever again.

oOo

It really was shaping up to be a terrible evening. The God-Emperor of Mankind sighed despondently as he picked the remains of his favourite video-tape from the corpse of the video player; and it had seemed like such a good idea to sort it out himself.

The latest batch of data had turned out to be completely duff, then there had been that really annoying meeting about his pet hate, _budgets_. Then when he'd gone to get take-away from his favourite Chinese they'd been shut. But of course they were shut, it was _Tuesday_ and they were _always_ shut on a Tuesday, so he'd had to make do with pizza, which was okay, just not what he'd fancied. And then there had been that powerful and unpleasant surge in the Immaterium (or the Warp, as darling Allessandor preferred). Feeling quite unsettled and unable to sleep, he'd settled in for a film marathon, only for the video player to destroy _The Sound of Music_ just as Julie Andrews was telling everyone about her favourite things. It was his favourite bit as well. He prodded the video player mournfully, and in his attempt to extricate the tape he suspected he'd broken the player too, in a rather permanent fashion. Surely there must be a more efficient way of storing movies than on magnetic tape.

He gave the video player a speculative poke; on a disc maybe, like a CD, the information stored in microscopic pits and read by a laser…or how about a more solid state form, the information etched inside some sort of crystal.

Allesandor actually had a working spacecraft now, so if he had some zero-gravity grown crystals, for the best quality and minimum in imperfections, then he could have a little experiment…

The familiar flare of light announced Fawkes' sudden arrival.

"Hello beautiful," the God-Emperor cooed distractedly as he padded away into the kitchen. Now where had he put that bag of cranberries? But Fawkes followed him, perching on his shoulder, warbling and chirping anxiously.

"So, not a social visit heh?" he murmured as he accepted the piece of carefully folded parchment from the unhappy bird. He couldn't help but notice the small smudge of blood on one corner as he opened it. The handwriting was a hasty scrawl, begging him for help. Allesandor was seriously injured…possibly life threatening…strange extra organs…since he'd designed and made the Astartes, could he please help?

He stared at the parchment in amazement, Fawkes giving a hopeful sounding warble in his ear. His "greatest fan", the source of much frustration and entertainment, in life threatening trouble?

"Of course I'll help," he reassured the nervous phoenix. Fawkes lifted off his shoulder in a blaze of red and gold, swirling around the God-Emperor's head as he sang in delight.

oOo

He tapped his foot in frustration as the lift seemed to crawl to his destination. Were the lifts at the Ministry always this slow, or had this one, sensing his urgency, decided to be contrary and take the scenic route?

"Cleaning Supplies and Offices for Maintenance of the Ministry", the lift warbled happily as the grated doors sprang open.

With a sigh, Dumbledore strode down the corridor intent on Carrow's office, tucked away in this most unfashionable of corners of the Ministry. If he could just get there before Faulks, then he could have Carrow relieved of office and appoint someone of greater sanity, or at least force some compromises on the giant menace.

Really, Fudge had been an utter fool putting the man down here where he was out of sight and out of mind. Personally, he'd have insisted that they shared an office. Less chance of Carrow getting into trouble that way, but on the other hand, considering the likely incessant pranking…yet it was a sacrifice he would be prepared to make.

Hadn't that corridor been longer than that? He frowned; a mystery for a later date. A knock at Carrow's office door produced no response, though he couldn't imagine why any of the Senior Undersecretary's staff would be here at this ungodly hour. Cautiously, he put his head around the door; he could always apologise, and then explain.

To his astonishment, the little foyer area of Carrow's office had vanished. Instead there was an ornamental fountain, and potted ferns, and lots of people urgently scurrying back and forth between various arches that lined the space. He eased his way in unnoticed. The walls of this entrance hall he supposed, were painted with Carrow's usual round of glaring armoured saints and gigantic dangerous men bearing impossible weapons. The ceiling was like a void of darkness, lit only by faint sparks of light, like diamond dust smeared across this emptiness. He blinked in surprise, he wasn't even sure what they were. Strange…ships maybe, shot bright traces of light at one another in a hypnotic dance of violence punctuated by flashes of light as explosions rippled out like strange burning flowers in the darkness.

Well, this was all terribly interesting but it still didn't help him with his original question. Where was Carrow's office? He looked around in frustration, the arches were all clearly sign-posted; _Archives_, _DMLE Liaison_, _Liaison for Non-Magical Cooperation_, _Refectory, Press Liaison_…wasn't that Rita Skeeter? Oh dear, this had the potential to be even worse than he'd feared. None of this was in the slightest bit helpful. He was going to have to ask someone for directions.

Looking round at the staff intent on their work, Dumbledore came to a strangely horrifying realisation. A significant proportion of them were clad in smart muggle wear. Were they muggle-born? He sincerely doubted it. How badly _had_ Allesandor violated the Statute of Secrecy?

A young man carrying a trio of box-files blinked in surprise at him when collared. "Mr Carrow's office?" he said. "It's just on the other side of the Refectory."

"Ah! Thank you very much," Dumbledore smiled, "this office is such a warren…" but the young man had already hurried off into the crowd intent on his task.

Shaking his head sadly at the state of modern youth, Dumbledore strode off, intent on his target, for surely young Mr Fawkes would still be receiving medical attention, given Severus's description of his injuries.

The Refectory proved to be vaguely familiar; he was sure he'd seen the long room before, with its collection of distressingly plain chairs and tables and the hatch on the other side, currently closed, through which food was dispensed at mealtimes. A few people lingered, drinking from flimsy brown cups. A wiry man in a blue shirt fiddled with and then shook a large black cupboard until it dispensed the snack he'd ordered.

Further along were a series of doors, none of them particularly distinctive, all a drab grey with a small white number plaque at eye-level, apart from one with a sign of a red circle with a line through it. Well, it was as good as anything.

Pushing it open, he stepped out onto a train platform. Well, this wasn't right. Dumbledore frowned in puzzlement and growing horror; there was absolutely no way the Ministry had some sort of secret back-door onto the London Underground. As Chief Warlock he would have known about such a thing. He turned to go back, only to find the door had shut very firmly behind him.

"Oh fiddlesticks," he grumbled to himself, aware that he was getting the odd strange look from people waiting on the platform. So apparently Allesandor hadn't bothered with muggle-repelling wards. Just typical of the annoying man. The little red lights on the funny device mounted next to the door winked cheekily at him, doing nothing to improve his mood.

He was just debating the advisability of drawing his wand in front of so many muggles when a train pulled in to the station, in a great whoosh of air and noise, a small surge of people getting off while others got on. To his apprehension several of the new crowd began to make their way towards him.

"Got locked out, eh?" a cheerful middle-aged man with glasses and a jolly argyle jumper asked, his eyes watchful and wary. The lady behind him, in grey trousers and a very pale pink jumper, gave a polite smile.

"Yes indeed," Dumbledore smiled back, "I was trying to find Mr Carrow's office and got rather lost. He will keep altering things around," he sighed.

The man pulled a card out of a pocket, swiping it through the device next to the door, before punching in a code. "Well, no trouble," he gave Dumbledore a tight smile, "we've been called in for an emergency. I take it so have you…well, I can easily direct you to Mr Carrow's office. Just give the door a push," he said as the lights on the box turned green and the door gave off a buzzing sound.

The corridor beyond was just as plain and anonymous as before. Dumbledore turned to his companions with a questioning look.

"Just down here," the man gestured with his briefcase to a small unassuming corridor just to the right of the Refectory. Dumbledore looked down it dubiously and thanked the man anyway. It looked a rather strange location for Allesandor's office, he thought as he strode up to yet another anonymous grey door. Which jerked open just as he was about to knock, revealing a young lady with short dark hair in a crisp white shirt, who jolted in shock at his sudden appearance. "Scuse me," she said as she sidled past with a sheaf of papers clutched in her hand.

Smiling politely, Dumbledore sidled into the familiar office beyond, except there was no typing pool. That had disappeared completely, the wall behind Timothy's desk solid and now adorned with a painting of some strange and exotic landscape, a barren rocky desert with two suns hanging low over the horizon. Was that even possible? He shook his head in bewilderment. It was surprisingly busy considering the lateness of the hour. A young muggle man sat behind Timothy's desk tapping away frantically at one of those beige muggle boxes, talking urgently into another muggle device of some kind. In the alcove opposite, next to the visitor's sofa, which looked slightly mauled these days, a muggle-born he vaguely recognised (Ravenclaw possibly), was sorting through pink and yellow forms on Mr Deer's desk, while someone else was rifling through the filing cabinets beyond.

Nobody paid him the slightest bit of attention so he quietly made his way through to Allesandor's office proper. The door had been propped open with a particularly ugly bronze statue of a bear he noted with vague interest. An unwanted gift maybe.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," a familiar voice announced.

Dumbledore looked up to find the occupants of Allesandor's office all staring at him tiredly. Ms Slyte, elegant as ever, was perched on the edge of the desk, yet another one of those muggle contraptions clutched in her hands. Young Percy perched uncomfortably in the visitor's chair taking notes with a rather strange looking pen, while another wizard stood rather uncomfortably next to the painting of the torture scene, his eyes flicking nervously to where one of the thin lean figures had left his task and was now paying him far too much attention.

Wulfric lurked in the shadows of the snarling Nundu head, his face etched with concern, and sitting behind the desk was Timothy Faulks himself, dwarfed by the massive piece of furniture, his left eye staring coldly at him, a crisp white bandage swathed around most of the rest of his head. Blood stained the front of his white shirt, his dolman shiny and crusted with it, even his sash hadn't escaped. It appeared on the whole that Severus and Alastor might have actually been understating things.

"This simplifies matters a great deal," Timothy gave him a chilly smile as he shifted through the documents on the desk, "here we are." He pulled a fat parchment scroll from under some blue forms. "I think you should find all the paperwork in order. I shall be acting as Senior Undersecretary while Mr Carrow is incapacitated."

Dumbledore reluctantly took the scroll as Ms Slyte silently passed it to him, his fingers feeling cold and leaden. His plan was half realised at least; young Timothy maybe very much under Allesandor's thumb, but at least he was _sane_ and open to reason.

oOo

He tried to ignore his unsteadiness as he appeared on the drive of his parents' house, the crack of Wulfric's apparition announcing the arrival of the currently overly concerned werewolf. Timothy turned to give him a glare, but had a feeling that his current exhaustion, and the dark, weren't really helping it. Brushing off a supporting arm, he stormed up to the security and sanctuary of his family home. At least he'd be able to finally get some rest for a while, put all the chaos and mess that the stupid lump had made this time out of his mind, at least for a little while.

The shrill of the door-bell made the pounding of his head worse as he wobbled on the door-step. He was sure he'd just feel better as soon as he'd had a little sleep despite what Wulfric was muttering at him.

The sudden flood of light from the open front door and Dad's exclamation of "good grief," nearly had him falling backwards. Thankfully, Wulfric caught him and propped him mainly upright. Suddenly that was getting very hard to do.

"…hospital, right now," Mum's voice cut through his fuzzy sluggish thoughts as someone, Wulfric he suspected, manhandled (or should that be wolf-handled) him into the family car. "I'm fine," he tried to argue, "just need to sleep." But nobody took any notice of him.

The harsh fluorescent tube lights of the A&amp;E waiting room woke him rather rudely, making the pounding inside his skull even worse, as if tiny little dwarves with war-hammers and a serious grudge were taking out their frustrations inside his brain. It was not helping the nausea either. He licked his dry lips looking around cautiously trying compensate for the yawning horrible blind-spot, trying to ignore the look of sympathy on Wulfric's face as he came over and sat by him right in that blind-spot.

"Trying to make me feel safer?" he ground out.

Wulfric huffed in amusement. "Better than you putting a fireball through someone."

Timothy tried glaring at him again, but the werewolf was busily browsing through a two year old edition of _Women's Weekly_. "I'm fine, you know," he tried snapping, but it came out rather flat.

Wulfric flipped the page. "Sure."

They both winced as a small child clutching a bag of sweets ran past screaming at the top of his voice, his mother in hot pursuit. The mother stormed back, the child, now crying and protesting tucked under one arm.

Timothy folded his arms over his chest glaring at where Mum was busily haranguing a member of staff who was looking exasperated in a highly professional manner. Obviously they put up with this a lot.

Dragging himself to his feet, he staggered over intent on putting a stop to the entire ridiculous situation.

"Mum, I'm fine," he barged into the middle of Mum's rant, "all I need is something to eat and a little sleep…not necessarily in that order…so, come on, let's go home." He tried tugging at her arm, only for Mum to brush him off.

"Go and sit down," she commanded, pointing to the rows of chairs, "_now!_"

"Mum," he whined, turning only to find Wulfric had snuck up on him and was now carefully watching his every move with concern.

"You're bleeding again," the werewolf said, his brow scrunching in worry.

Something snapped, some angry and outraged part of his mind clawed its way to the front angry and furious at the terrible treatment that these people dared deal him. "I've had _enough_," he snarled to the world in general, "I'm going home. I don't need mollycoddling or babying or…or…" he turned, his great-coat flaring dramatically around him as he slammed straight into Wulfric.

"Come and sit down again," Wulfric frowned with concern as he took his arm, trying to drag him away.

"NO!" Timothy shoved him off as best he could, pushing past towards the exit, oblivious to all the watching eyes and the overly interested staff, several of whom had gathered at an unobtrusive distance. "You're not stopping me," he snarled over his shoulder as he tried to storm towards the doors, but his feet were increasingly uncooperative, stumbling and nearly tripping him. Shaking his head woozily, he tried to pull himself together, but things were getting harder to see.

He shuffled away from Wulfric who seemed intent on shadowing his every step; behind him, a couple of A&amp;E staff had sidled closer, watching him with calm interest, the ground increasingly beginning to sway and toss in a very disconcerting manner. He turned to Wulfric puzzled; was the werewolf experiencing this too? But his thoughts had taken on the consistency of golden syrup and the ground, to his puzzlement, suddenly seemed a lot closer, and when had Wulfric grabbed hold of him? He didn't remember that at all. The feet of the A&amp;E staff approached, oddly blurry.

"We'll handle it from here," one of them said kindly to Wulfric, as Timothy finally lost his grasp on consciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Here it finally is, the last chapter of Tournament of Tribulations, which has taken on at times the feeling of pulling teeth with rusty pliers, has demanded much editing and swopping and changing of scenes, and re-writing from different character point-of-views and just generally been a complete giant headache….and now it's over!

So, thank-you for all the wonderful reviews and PM's that have kept me going; I hope you enjoy :-)

* * *

**Chapter 10**

The silence in the Headmaster's office was almost thunderous in its quality, the many portraits of previous incumbents not even remotely pretending to be asleep, all eagerly leaning forward in their frames, watching the drama unfolding before them with rapt attention.

Snape slumped further down in his chair, instinctively trying to make himself look smaller, gaze firmly fixed on the suddenly fascinating carpet. How could the Headmaster, seemingly at will, just strip decades off his age like this? He was nearly forty for Merlin's sake, but right now he felt almost as bad as he had when he'd been caught red-handed after dousing James Potter head-to-toe in stink-sap. His elation and triumph had blinded him to his surroundings and the disapproving gaze of Professor Slughorn, who'd promptly dragged him before the Headmaster by his ear.

He risked a sideways glance. Seemed old Mad-Eye was in a similar situation, given the defensive hunch of his shoulders.

"Well, gentlemen?" Dumbledore's deceptively calm and friendly voice shattered the heavy silence.

Snape startled slightly, his eyes flicking upwards momentarily, revealing the headmaster's cold and disapproving gaze. He jerked his eyes back to the carpet, trying to ignore the sudden nervous dampness of his hands. Could he get away with wiping them on his robes, or would this ensure another round of devastating sarcasm? The Headmaster didn't often lose his temper, but when he did…he shivered to himself. It was times like this he secretly missed his Death Eater days. At least people like Bellatrix, and even the Dark Lord himself, were predictable in their evil, violent, sadistic way. Their rages were almost excusable, understandable, compared to the cold and rational fury that radiated off Dumbledore. The fact it was completely justifiable just made the guilt clawing at his guts that much worse.

"I find it absolutely fascinating, Severus," Dumbledore continued in a conversational manner, "that on discovering that there was a dangerous criminal and known Death-Eater at large within the school, your first thought was to inform young Mr Carrow of the fact, rather than coming to me with this rather important information."

Snape watched nervously through his hair as the Headmaster leaned back in his chair, gazing up at the ceiling as he twiddled his thumbs.

"My goodness me," Dumbledore turned and glared at him over the top of his glasses, "I hadn't realised that Allesandor had ascended to the dizzying heights of Headmaster of this school. I know he's very keen on grasping as much power to himself as he can, what with his turning the Ministry into his own personal playground, but still…" His sweet smile contrasted sharply with his chilly eyes. "And then of course we come to our next little conundrum. Where has Mr Crouch Jr disappeared to?" He looked between them, an eyebrow raised sarcastically. "No? Nothing to say, gentlemen?"

Moody muttered something unintelligible, as he slumped even further down in his chair, shifting uncomfortably as he struggled with his second-best wooden leg.

"I'm sorry, Alastor, I didn't quite catch that?" Dumbledore gave him a chilly little smile.

Moody muttered again, gradually finding his voice. "Mr Carrow has him. He didn't say what for though," he glanced sideways shiftily, "insurance or something he said." Moody grumbled as he shifted uncomfortably again, clearly wanting to be as far away from the Headmaster's office as he could physically get.

"Insurance?" Dumbledore asked, coldly leaning forward. "So you just happily handed over a man, who, if I understand your explanation correctly, is unable to fend for himself in any meaningful way, to a man who is known for his tendencies to turn…random body parts into _toys_. That's before we get onto the possible political ramifications, thanks to the blackmail potential…" Dumbledore sighed heavily suddenly looking every inch his age.

Moody had, to Snape's amusement, slumped so low in his chair that it was a wonder he didn't dribble off onto the floor. Snape shifted guiltily; he hadn't fully considered that. Mr Crouch Sr. was the head of the _Department for International Cooperation_ after all, but wouldn't Carrow have already riddled the place with his own agents? It seemed curious that he'd need to blackmail the Department Head too, but Carrow always did like to be as thorough as possible…

"And now we get on to our final matter," Dumbledore's voice was even chillier, like a blast of polar air in the summer warmth of the office. Snape looked up through his hair only to find the Headmaster staring straight at him, his eyes burning with fury. He swallowed nervously; it was such a relief that Dumbledore was just too nice and too honourable to have gone into the Dark Lord business. He'd have made people like Grindelwald look like an underachiever, and as for the Dark Lord…a complete non-starter.

He heaved a sigh of relief when that freezing gaze switched to Moody. Seriously, the country would just be a smoking hole in the ground if the Headmaster ever decided he'd had enough and set out to achieve world domination.

"…calling someone unable to defend themselves vile degrading names- are you _listening_, Severus?"

Snape jolted out of his thoughts, looking up guiltily to find Dumbledore's intense glare once more directed at himself.

"Mr Crouch Jnr's despicable choices in life, _gentlemen,_ is no excuse to label him "cabbage" on loosing what wits he had once possessed. Are we quite clear?" Dumbledore narrowed his eyes as he looked between them.

Moody slumped even further down in the chair mumbling something that might have been agreement.

"Severus?" the Headmaster snapped.

Snape flinched at the intense scrutiny he was now under. "Yes, Headmaster," he muttered, his voice squeaking embarrassingly. He slumped further down in the chair as his face flushed scarlet. Now he really did feel like he was twelve again; if only the awful overstuffed chair would swallow him whole.

"Would either of you happen to know where poor Cuthbert has disappeared to?" The fury in Dumbledore's voice had retreated. "It would be very vexing to find I need to advertise for a new History teacher."

Snape shared a puzzled look with Moody. "No, sir," he squeaked and flushed as the Headmaster's lips twitched in amusement. Snape cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Headmaster," he tried again, his voice slightly too deep causing Moody to smother a huff of laughter. He gave the annoying old git a steel melting glare. "Has our mystery exorcist finally succeeded?"

Dumbledore sighed again. "That is unclear at the moment. On the positive side, our ghostly population, though they are being decidedly tight-lipped about Cuthbert's whereabouts, do not seem overly distressed."

OOOOOO

Scurrying as quickly as she could, Rita tried to keep her breathing (or whatever it was that beetles did instead, she was never quite sure) under some sort of control. Just a couple of inches more and she'd be back in the safety of the shadows away from the attentions of the insect murdering freak who sat on the stool below her, in this greasy little inn in the bowels of the Knockturn area, his legs sprawled as he half sat, half lolled against the wall. The vicious bastard seemed to delight in sending tiny gouts of fire at passing flies with his wand. Not that she particularly liked flies either, but it wasn't the point; they were small flammable creatures and so was she.

If he looked up right now he'd see a big blue beetle scurrying across the smoke-stained beam and being the nasty piece of work he obviously was, she couldn't imagine him passing up the opportunity.

With a sigh of relief she heaved herself over a large splinter and into safety. Now all she had to look out for were the nasty evil beetle eating arachnids, and keep an eye on her mark, the greasy insect murderer sitting below, the best lead she had so far in her week long investigation into the shadowy goings-on of Knockturn. Her usual contacts had only been able to give her the barest hint of disturbing whispers and so she had resorted to lurking in her animagus form, eavesdropping on surreptitious, nervous and furtive people which had eventually led her to this weasel-like scrap of humanity, one Josiah Spit, J-Boy to his friends.

The strange disappearances that the DMLE were busily shrugging their shoulders over did seem to be becoming part of a larger picture of abductions and disappearances of muggle-born and half-blood girls that because of societal prejudices were being ignored and explained away among an absolutely ridiculous culture of victim blaming. Did any of the morons in the Daily Prophet offices actually really think that muggle-born women really wanted to be kidnapped, murdered and abused in dubious ritual magical experiments any more than the ladies of the pure-blood elite; the whole thing made her blood boil.

She perked up, leaning round the beam, twitching her mandibles in excitement as finally J-Boy perked up, staring intently towards the inn's door, her currently restricted and fragmented vision not allowing to see what had caught his attention.

"…the Filth everywhere," the friend said as they exchanged greetings. "What's a nice place like this doing attracting degenerates like them?"

Dark laughter filtered up to Rita as the two men sat and shouted their orders for drinks, and then they leant forward muttering intently to one another. Did they somehow think they didn't look suspicious Rita thought as she scuttled further down the beam and onto the dingy plaster of the wall, rattling her wing cases in annoyance; stupid conspiring idiots.

"...their heads blew up just like watermelons," J-Boy breathlessly explained with a nasty little grin.

"How would you know what an exploding watermelon looked like," his friend, who had the most unfortunate set of acne scars Rita had ever seen, asked scornfully.

"Ah, come on mate," J-Boy whined, "I've got to practise my aim on something." Smirking, he pulled out his wand again neatly scorching a fat blue-bottle as it zoomed past. The unfortunate insect landed in the middle of the table with a plop still smoking slightly.

"Yeah, yeah," Acne-scars sneered as he pulled out his wand, "I'll show you." With a flick of his wrist he sent a foot long gout of flame at a nearby fly that quickly dodged, buzzing drunkenly away.

"Heh, if you want to play around with stuff like that you can bloody well take it outside," the barmaid snarled as she dumped pints of beer in front of them, glaring at them from behind her too thick mask of make-up. Turning on her heel, she stormed back to the bar.

"Right," Acne-scars glowered after her.

"Right," J-Boy smirked at him.

Oh, what scintillating conversation, Rita thought sarcastically to herself. This wasn't the first time she'd heard this particular rumour. It could just be that of course, or it meant there was a sick and deranged lunatic running round the area, or it meant there was someone out there experimenting with some sort of ritual magic, an activity that came somewhere between utterly idiotic and death-wish. There were very good reasons it was the most heavily regulated branch of magic by the Ministry, despite arguments to the contrary. The History books were pretty comprehensive on why, but of course most people had bunked off history at school; Binns had a lot to answer for.

It was certainly going in her report for Tim. The poor man couldn't really show his face in public anymore, he was now so recognisable. People would run away screaming about the "Bone Butcher" or rumours of a raid by Carrow would start running riot. Which was a shame; Tim had good instincts, in fact if Carrow hadn't got his claws into him he would have made a fine investigative journalist.

"…needs fresh blood," J-Boy muttered meaningfully as he leant forward over his pint, "don't ask me what _she's_ trying to achieve. Don't make no sense to me."

Rita froze in the middle of cleaning her wing casing; who was _she_?

J-Boy shrugged. "None of our business, it is what it is. We just gather up the, err, "merchandise" and send it _her_ way." He glowered as he took a sip of his beer. "Remember Duggie? He got too curious for his own good, turned up in the river in pieces. I ended up going with his mum to identify the body…" He gulped some more beer. "That was a nasty business I can tell you. The muggle coppers might think he was dismembered with butchers' knives, but I know the marks of a cutting curse when I see it."

Rita rubbed her forelimbs together thoughtfully; it could be that this _she_ wasn't of any significance at all, but on the other hand this was the first indicator that she had of a specific person behind these kidnappings. It was little things like that that made all this skulking around and dodging spiders worth it. Suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, she swivelled around on the spot. Nothing there, but probably best to change positions to be careful.

The conversation below had dissolved into a strange melange of Quidditch and football as she crawled along a crack in the dingy plasterwork down to the level of the table-top. As quickly as she could she ran for the safety of the shadows under the greasy table clinging to the rough underside. At least now she wouldn't have to look at the slimy idiots.

"…know where there's some fresh blood," J-Boy boasted. "Stick with me, kid, and we'll make a killing on this."

"Yeah, well…" Acne-scars shifted uncomfortably, "where? And what about the gang? Seriously J-Boy, they ain't going to like you going solo, stepping on their turf."

"Ah come on, don't be such a wuss," Rita could practically hear J-Boy's smirk, "I've got protection see, sort of thing that'll make the crew wet themselves. Means we can go after the prize," he clothes rustled as he leaned forward conspiratorially, "they're plenty magical, plenty pretty too. Either way we're going to get paid big time."

Rita stiffened with fury. "Plenty pretty", well, she didn't need much of an imagination to know what that entailed, the nasty evil pieces of…she growled as best she could, sending a nearby fly zooming away in an undignified tumble. So it looked like the two stooges were surprisingly her best bet, until they ended up taking a trip into the Thames in mouldy old sacks, of course.

"…horns? What's that all about?" Acne-Scars asked.

"Nobody knows," J-Boy muttered as he threw a handful of change on the table, "one thing though, never mention them to _her_ ever. It's the surest way to get a one-way trip in a wooden box there is."

_Horns? _Rita paused in her antennae cleaning; what the heck?

OOOOOO

It was like rising from a deep dive, struggling towards the light through murky depths, leaving him gasping and heaving for breath. He looked around, wincing as the small movement sent pain lancing across his abdomen. He frowned in puzzlement; the last thing he remembered was fighting an abomination of the Great Enemy in a graveyard, his people by his side, his _new_ people in this distant and ancient time, that he was working so hard to make his home.

But what had happened then…he vaguely recollected Timothy screaming but then it was all a blank…so how had he ended up here, in the tiny medicae bay next to the training hall feeling as if he'd been run over by a Baneblade, and he was talking from experience there, too. Fortunately, there hadn't been any witnesses to that embarrassing little incident, but still…

He shifted uncomfortably, growling as pain once again lanced across his stomach leaving him gasping for breath, eyes watering. Scowling, he peeked under the ridiculous gown he'd been dressed in. The puckered red gash that ran from his sternum to just above his pelvic bone looked new and raw, sending a veritable torrent of memories crashing through his mind, the Daemon rearing back, a desperate dive as lethal claws descended towards an incapacitated Timothy, pain and blessed darkness.

Snarling, Carrow slapped the stone wall in rage; of all the stupid idiotic ridiculous ways to nearly get himself killed, it had to be one of the most pathetic. Stupid amateurish…if his mentor Inquisitor Beaufeld had witnessed such foolishness, he'd have clipped him round the ears, or got his pet orgryn to do it more likely. Losing his touch, going _soft_ and _native,_ that was what it was. He was an Inquisitor of the Ordos Malleus for Thrones sake, they didn't do soft. He was better than this, so much better.

He slapped the wall again, snarling in frustration as he pulled himself into more of a sitting position, pain rippling across his torso, pillows flopping onto the floor, dragging a hand through hair which to his utter fury was clean and ointment free, fluffy curls springing under his fingers. Why, _why_ did they always do this?

"So you're finally awake," Timothy's familiar voice came from the doorway, cold and scathing.

Carrow looked up from his frustrating struggle with the blankets which seemed to have wrapped themselves around his legs for the sheer fun of it. Timothy seemed none the worse for wear, standing tall and straight, his blue and bronze sash a vivid contrast to the plain black of his dolman. He did have a rather large dressing over the right- hand side of his face, but it was a rather minor matter considering how things could have been; thank the God –Emperor he had been fast enough.

To his puzzlement and surprise, Timothy stalked forward, stiff-backed, expression stony, until they were virtually nose to nose. "You stupid, bone-headed, irresponsible idiot," he hissed, fury blazing in his one visible eye, "of all the ridiculous ways to get yourself killed," he stormed as he began scooping up pillows and stuffing them roughly behind Carrow's back.

The large man grimaced; his apprentice's words mirrored his thoughts far too closely for comfort. Had it been that obvious what he'd done? How utterly stupid he'd been? He opened his mouth to say… what, he really wasn't sure.

"I got woken up at two this morning by Security wanting me to deal with the R&amp;D idiots," Timothy said in an almost conversational tone.

Carrow stifled a sigh; what did this have to do with him?

"Apparently they decided to have a "welcome back" party for Professor Schmidt, and it got decidedly out of hand. They were having races with random flying objects when I got there, all along the access road to the main gate. It must have been quite a sight for passing motorists seeing a wizard _in robes and a pointy hat,_ floating past on an office chair!" He heaved a frustrated sigh.

Carrow stared at him. "The God-Emperor was here…again?"

"_He_ is still here," Timothy sighed, "he seems to have taken to squatting in one of the spare labs in the Research Department. I haven't the heart to tell him to shove off, particularly since Frank and his minions seem to have gone the last forty-eight hours without sleep and not really left the building. Security are getting fed-up dealing with their pizza deliveries."

Carrow nodded distractedly, not really listening; the God-Emperor himself was _here_. He reached out gently with his mind, only to come up short, nearly breaking his concentration as his conscious mind butted up against the glorious breath-taking super-nova that was the living God-Emperor himself. He snapped back to reality, blinking rapidly and gasping for air as he tried to struggled upright. He had to see him, he _had to._

"What do you think you're doing, you moron?" Timothy growled at him, trying to shove heavy limbs back onto the bed. "I doubt Professor Schmidt is going anywhere any time soon, you'll meet him, don't you worry. Now get back on that bed!"

Carrow growled and sighed, scowling at the pain as he lay back down again and attempted to get comfortable. "Can you…" he tried.

"Not a word," Timothy snarled, obviously determined to vent his feelings.

His mouth snapping closed, Carrow tried again, ignoring Timothy's murderous one-eyed glare, and decided to change the subject in the interests of diplomacy of course. "How long have I been incapacitated?" he asked.

"Around two days," came the strained reply.

Carrow relaxed slightly, not as terrible as he'd feared then; now for the important questions. "The Ministry?" he cautiously asked.

"I filed all the appropriate paper-work at the first possible opportunity," Timothy's expression darkened, "meaning I am now the acting Senior Under-Secretary until you are able to retake the reins."

He couldn't help but smile, Timothy really was quite marvellous, certainly had his priorities right. "Excellent, excellent. And the reports on this rather unfortunate incident?" He raised an eyebrow.

Timothy ground his teeth. "Also written up and filed, in triplicate, including those of Messers Snape and Moody."

"Good, I look forward to reading their accounts…" Carrow smirked, his mind all-ready veering away to other more important things, his fingers drumming against a thigh. "Where did the, ah…_Dark Lord_ get that tainted artefact? And how long was it in his possession? Was he deliberately corrupted or was he already well on the road to ruin when he acquired it?" He frowned thoughtfully. "Thanks to Mr Crouch Jnr's memories, we can be fairly certain that it was in his possession prior to his physical incapacitation, but for how long…" He scowled thoughtfully. "Did you notice the similarity in the feel of the warp taint to that of the Cult we have been tracking these last few years? I can't be absolutely certain that it is them, but it would certainly be interesting if…"

A sharp pain jolted him out of his thoughts and he turned to glare at Timothy who had taken his distraction as a golden opportunity to poke him in the stomach.

"Is that all you can think about," Timothy snarled, "your mission to the God-Emperor?"

"The work of the Inquisition must ne…" he growled angrily.

"And what about all the other duties you have taken on," Timothy interrupted him, "what about all the people who work for you directly, not just me, but Chuddy and Juno and all the others? They'd all be jobless, which for some of them would be an absolute disaster; you were like a last chance, and then there's the Coven. They're really up in arms, you're practically a member, _one of them_, and if you died," he jabbed a finger in Carrow's side to emphasise his point, "they'd be out on the street again with nowhere to go, _no_ safety and _no_ sanctuary."

He paused breathing heavily, and Carrow watched him cautiously. Was it over now?

"I've been having to beat off a predatory Bernard because of this," the smaller man snarled, "English Heritage are circling like sharks that have scented blood in the water. They'd be delighted to take over the Lodge and all its contents, it'd be like the jewel in their crown or something, and of course none of us would have the legal standing to stop them."

"But it's only a thousand years old, two thousand if you include parts of the foundation," Carrow replied in puzzlement. The English Heritage people still bewildered him with their strange enthusiasms for such new items.

Timothy glared nastily at him.

"Then of course there's Felix," he hissed, "he lost his parents in the most horrific way imaginable, but despite this he's really settled in and started to thrive. He thinks the absolute world of you, but now he's withdrawn and sullen and suffering from nightmares. Not that he exactly told us about those, Wulfric finally managed to get him to open up about them; the poor lad's terrified you're going to die and leave him alone too. That's one little boy you owe a huge apology to, particularly since if you really _had _died, he'd end up back in the fostering system, and land up who knows where!"

Carrow swallowed uncomfortably, a strange lump forming in his throat.

"Which brings us to the nub of the problem," Timothy practically shouted, "_you…have…no…will_!"

Carrow blinked in surprise, why would he have a will? He was a member of the Inquisition and an Astartes beside. Why would he have need of such a thing? There were procedures for that sort of thing, and in the event of his demise it would be Timothy's duty to…ah. Ah yes, he sometimes forgot he was living far from the Imperium of Man, temporally at least.

"We can't do anything if you have no will…if you _died_…" Timothy paused seemingly over-come by emotion, before pausing, mentally pulling himself together. He glared at Carrow. "I don't fully understand how it was for you…before, I take it from things you've said that there were protocols to follow in the event of an Inquisitor's death in the field, but here…here…it's all different…here, we all lose out in the event of your death."

He paused, nervously scrubbing at his face with a hand as he paced by the bed. Carrow watched him carefully, understanding beginning to dawn. No emergency protocols, he hadn't put any in place and then he'd taken his team into danger, repeatedly. He'd forgotten just how alone he was in this ancient world…he'd begun to go _native, _but not in a good way, he'd forgotten the need for safety nets, protection for those around him-

"…you act as if you're disposable, _easily replaceable_…_are you even listening to me?!"_

For the first time in years Carrow startled, glaring in annoyance as Timothy snarled down at him, looking exhausted and drawn, his remaining eye red and feverishly bright.

"I will make things right," he said firmly sneaking his arm around the smaller man. Timothy's suspicious glare turned to a squawk of surprise as Carrow unceremoniously dumped on the bed wincing as the motion jogged his injury. "Now sleep," he told the smaller man as he dumped the annoying blanket over him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Timothy hissed indignantly.

Carrow ignored him as he untangled more of the blanket from his legs. "You need rest. I will guard you," he explained, "now, sleep."

To his surprise Timothy actually complied, leaving him to his thoughts, the glorious radiance of the God-Emperor playing just at the edge of his perceptions.

OOOOOO

"So who did win the Tri-Wizard Tournament?" Ron asked as he frowned thoughtfully towards the high-table, the leaving feast in full swing around them, seemingly even more exuberant than normal, the banners around the hall shimmering gold and black in the candle-light.

At the Ravenclaw table the Beauxbatons students huddled as close to the High Table as they could get, eyeing the celebrating Hogwarts students warily as if at any moment they would start frothing at the mouth and descend into a murderous rampage. The Durmstrang students didn't look much happier as they endured terse and strained conversations with some of the Slytherins.

"No clue," Hermione said distractedly as she attempted to eat, read and make notes at the same time, "who cares anyway, it's not like its important or anything." She glared darkly at the book flicking back a few pages, muttering to herself.

Ron and Neville exchanged looks over her head with a shrug.

"Honestly, you lot are unbelievable," Seamus burst out from across the table, "all you think about are beating things up, and then killing them…and running in mud."

"No we don't," Hermione glared at him indignantly, "personally, I very much enjoy the intellectual rigors of numerology, Neville is incredible with plants and Ron is the best chess player in our…"

"Yeah, whatever," Dean said loudly, "doesn't change the fact that you're all crazy, infected with craziness by the King of Crazy, _Professor Carrow_," he spat the name like a curse waving his arms dramatically, ignoring the glares of the nearby Defence Club members.

"Anyway, for your information, _Weasley,_" Seams ignored his embarrassing friend, "Cedric Diggory won the tournament, hence Hufflepuff winning the House Cup for the first time in like a hundred years. Sprout nearly fainted with happiness."

"Ermm…oh, that's good," Ron exclaimed. Really? He'd missed all that, probably while enthusiastically recounting their last encounter with the Centaurs while hunting the now elusive dire wolves, with Neville. It had got rather involved, after all, they'd nearly _died_ and Colin had got shot with some sort of poison dart, and his left arm had swelled up to frightening proportions and gone red and purple, and Madam Pomfrey had gone all stony and silent with them, which was ten times worse than when she shouted. He was really going to miss the DC during the summer.

"Seriously, are you lot still on about that?" Hermione stared at them incredulously. "This," she tapped her book with a quill, "is far more interesting _and_ far more important. It's the training manual used by the American equivalent of the DMLE, they have really interesting ways of combining magic with physical combat. I'm making notes for next year's DC meetings."

"Seriously cool." Ron stared at the book hungrily, Neville grinning as if he'd been told Christmas was coming early.

"We'll have to try it out though, won't we? Over the summer?" Neville asked urgently.

"Oh yes," Hermione nodded, "if we can get as many of us together as possible, and then we could have fun running through some of the training scenarios. There's one here about being ambushed in narrow corridors…"

Dean and Seamus exchanged disgusted looks. "Totally nuts," Seamus shook his head despairingly.

A whooping at the Hufflepuff table drew all heads as several students climbed on to the table and began to dance a rather awkward jig in among the serving dishes and plates.

"Conga! CONGA!" someone shouted causing a mad scramble as students laughing and cheering scrambled over the benches to join in, black and gold rubber ducks showering down from the ceiling in swirling drifts as the Castle itself joined in the festivities, umbrellas and shielding charms appearing along the house tables.

"Come on Ripper!" Ron shouted over the din, tugging at Hermione's arm, "come on, just a little bit of fun," he grinned down at his far too serious friend.

"Ron," she whined, trying to cling to the table.

"Look, Nev's getting into the spirit," Ron laughed as the grizzly bear conga'd past, his snout open, tongue hanging out in a bearish grin.

"Fine, fine," she snapped throwing down her quill and climbing over the bench, "I'm not going to get a moment's peace if I don't give in to this, am I?"

"Nope," Ron grinned as they joined the end of the conga that was now snaking around the Hufflepuff table.

As they passed the High Table, Ron couldn't help but grin when he saw Uncle Sev had managed to pull a disappearing act, leaving behind an annoyed Professor Moody who looked like he was getting ready to hex something, probably Karkaroff who was looking hunched and defensive now the protective barrier of the potions master had disappeared, and of course Mr Faulks was there, apparently representing Professor Carrow, looking severe and scary, his right eye carefully bandaged, Wulfric Deer standing behind looking really cool in dark mirrored glasses. He gave them all a cheery wave as they cantered past, enthusiastically kicking their legs, round to the side of the hall and down behind the Slytherins, some of whom were actually smirking at them, Greg even tagging on to the end of the line as it went past him, Millie grinning but too shy to join in, as they shimmied down the table and round the end kicking little rubber duckies out of their way as they went, and went back past the Ravenclaws.

An explosion of sound rippled through the cheering and shouting; freezing, Ron turned to the Head Table to find the Headmaster standing there watching them with faint amusement. "If you could all make your way to your seats," he beamed down at them, "then I will be able to give out some last minute notices before you all retire to bed. It would be a pity to be tired when you arrive home to your families tomorrow."

Ron charged back to Gryffindor table, Hermione and Neville hot on his heels, Hermione worrying about her book, dodging and swerving round the other scrambling students as they went. There was no way he was sleeping on the train. There were things to organise, people to round up, DC meetings to arrange, study topics to decide on, but he had a feeling Hermione had that already sorted. Nev's place had large grounds which was handy, but his Gran always made him feel nervous. The Burrow was out; Mum was just too overbearing and wouldn't let them do anything she considered "dangerous" or "inappropriate" which meant just about anything they might want to do, plus the Twins were annoying and interfering. Maybe Greg could host the DC again? Of course he'd have to tell Mum he was going to Hermione's house again, because if she found out about him going to the Goyle residence she would do her nut, probably lock him in a cage for the rest of his life…maybe the Lodge, that was pretty cool…apart from Artemis trying to join in, and the pipsqueaks trailing around after them, Felix and Tiffany and Tiffany's annoying little brother who'd managed to burn a hole in his assault vest…but Carrow would let them use magic, wouldn't see any problem with it at all, and he might let them have another go on the firing range with those muggle rifle things. That had been _incredible_…

An elbow jabbed him unexpectedly in the ribs and he jerked, nearly falling backwards off the bench. Glaring nastily at the sniggering twins, he turned to find Hermione giving him a withering look, nodding towards the High Table.

"…another year ended and such a year it has been," the Headmaster smiled around at the Great Hall, "the marvellous Tri-Wizard tournament visited our school for the first time in over two hundred years. We have paid host to students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang," he smiled genially at the suspicious clusters of students at the ends of the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables, "the "We Want Quidditch" campaign was heartfelt and passionate…" A loud and ragged cheer ripped through the hall.

Dumbledore chuckled, waving a hand for silence. "You will be pleased to know that Quidditch will be as normal next September." He beamed at the happy celebration that greeted this piece of news.

"Then there is the frankly astounding quantities of mud our very newest student association, the Defence Club, has managed to track through the Castle. Mr Filch believes it beats even the Quidditch teams combined on a bad year."

Ron shifted with an embarrassed grin; okay, yes, there was a lot of mud, but surely it wasn't _that_ bad.

"…and of course, congratulations to Hufflepuff on their historic win of the House Cup, a well deserved…"

His words were drowned out by the thunderous roar of the Hufflepuffs as they took this as yet another opportunity to celebrate, hoisting a laughing and flushed Cedric Diggory up into the air. Ron blinked in surprise. "Erm, Hermione, is Professor Sprout crying?" he asked as he watched the herbology professor receive a hug from McGonagall, dabbing at her cheeks with a lace trimmed handkerchief.

"Can't blame her," Hermione muttered back, "it's been so long. Bet you the Puffs will be absolutely vicious next year trying to hang on to it, too."

A bell like tone rippled through the hall. "And now onto some more serious topics. For those of you who have, ah, _borrowed_ various weapons from around the school, please refrain from packing them in your trunks, no matter how fond you are of them." A quiet chorus of shuffling and throat clearing broke out across the hall.

"Oh blast," Ron distinctly heard Hermione mutter, "I really like that sabre too."

"I'm sure your parents will be very appreciative," the Headmaster continued, "of avoiding the social embarrassment of accidentally acquiring someone else's halberd."

He cleared his throat his expression one of utter sorrow. "And it is with great sadness that I must once again inform a certain individual, you know who you are, that the practice of Necromancy and other associated Black Arts are not allowed, either in the Castle, or the school grounds, supervised, or otherwise." His withering gaze swept the hall. "But since our budding young exorcist seems to have succeeded in permanently retiring Professor Binns, I trust that there will be _no repeat _of these incidents next year." He glared dangerously around the hall as excited whispers passed around the tables. Behind him Ron noticed Hermione was doing a very good impression of hiding under the table without actually being under it.

Over at the Slytherin table the house gossips were discretely besieging the extremely unhappy Durmstrang students, while those from Beauxbatons were glaring all around them as if their very worst fears had just been confirmed.

At the High Table, he couldn't help but notice that Uncle Sev had sort of ducked down, his forehead unnaturally red, obviously a sign of suppressed laughter. Professor Moody just seemed resigned, shaking his head. But Mr Faulks was staring right at them, his one visible eye narrowed and icy cold…oh bugger, he _knew_.

"Erm, Hermione," Ron muttered, "the _book_."

Hermione's eyes went wide. "Oh, _Throne_." She shuffled, her mind obviously whirring. "I'll think of something," she muttered, seemingly more reassuring herself than anything else.

The Headmaster drew a calming breath, smiling benignly yet again. "Congratulations once again to Hufflepuff, and on that happy note…time for bed, chop-chop!" He clapped his hands.

OOOOOO

He was utterly mind-numbingly bored, nearly a whole week confined mostly to bed with nothing to do but read reports and books and letters, and wait for the next visitor who deigned to reward him with their presence. It was rapidly gearing up to be even worse than the two-year long warp transit he had once endured while tracking a particularly heinous and elusive heretic. By the end of it the sump-rats had learnt to play dead, being able to keep it up for hours, and nobody, not the crew or even a single member of his entourage had been the slightest bit sympathetic towards his plight.

Even the mathematics course he'd decided to do this year with the Open University wasn't doing anything to distract him and now lay scattered across the bed-table that Timothy had provided him. At least he was beginning to understand the nature and meaning of many of the Mechanicus cult's holy symbols. As if inscribing a wheel with C=2πr would ensure it wouldn't distort, or even having a shrine next to the controls of a Landraider dedicated to a=v/t and F=ma would make the war-machine operate more efficiently.

Of all the stupid, heretical nonsense. Bunch of idiotic brain-dead fools; obviously drinking engine oil and trying to turn themselves into machines had made their common sense rot away at the earliest possible opportunity.

Timothy was still refusing to retrieve his hair ointment, so it was still a horrible fluffy mess; and the medicae bay was beginning to decidedly pall, ideally placed as it was to watch _everyone else_ train while _he_ was currently unable to do so. Growling in impotent rage, he thumped the wall again, adding ever so slightly to the dent that was beginning to grow there.

Artemis popped her head up from where she lay alongside him, blinking at him sleepily. Yawning widely she turned, wriggling as she got comfortable again, giving his left foot a few reassuring licks before she settled back into her snooze, her large head draped across his ankle.

But the very worst part of this slow and hideous torture (which he was sure his old mentor should have mentioned but hadn't) was that he could constantly feel the presence of the God-Emperor himself looming nearby like a gigantic psykic star, and like a planet he was left constantly orbiting this glory but never able to reach out and touch it. Not once had the rightful Ruler of Mankind moved any closer. Was this some sort of test?

The frustration of his Lord being so close, but so unreachable left him wanting to scream and throw things. Only the knowledge of how embarrassed he would feel in the face of Timothy's stony-faced sarcasm was stopping him…Timothy wasn't around at the moment, he was likely picking Felix up from school, if his internal clock was currently accurate, which meant…he grinned to himself, right…

Slowly, he pulled himself into a sitting position, wincing slightly as his partially healed injury pulled. A quick glance down his tunic revealed it do be doing well if he was any judge, which was a good thing considering what he was planning to do.

Artemis jerked awake as he pulled his legs out from under her, glaring at him indignantly, how dare he move her pillow, but Carrow ignored her, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet finally feeling floor after what felt like days. Cautiously, he pulled himself to his feet, grasping the wall as his vision greyed. Shaking his head as it cleared, he took a few tentative steps. It was a little sore but nothing too terrible. He smirked to himself; this was definitely doable.

By the time he arrived at the little monorail that provided transport through the underground complex, he was beginning to have second thoughts. His chest ached and his limbs felt leaden, slowing his normal stride to a painful shuffle. Fortunately one of the electric trains was sat in its berth, it was an uncomfortable squeeze, the driver's berth designed for someone with considerably shorter legs than himself.

"Are you coming?" he turned to Artemis who was watching him intently.

Artemis eyed the contraption dubiously for a moment, shifting from paw to paw, before nervously edging forward, her nose twitching frantically, ears pricked forward. She came to a stop mere feet away from the small topless carriage, staring intently, neck tense.

The carriage hissed nastily.

Frowning, Carrow leaned over stiffly. Ah. Reaching out, he plucked the small and angry vampire from her hiding place, plonking her across his lap. "Well?" he sighed at the staring tiger. Artemis huffed and grumbled softly, climbing gingerly in behind him.

Carrow winced as Natasha rearranged herself on his lap, the familiar sound of Edwin's voice drifting down the corridor towards them. "Has anyone seen my sister?"

"Just typical," Carrow muttered to himself as the little train sped on its way, Artemis complaining at the sudden movement. As they travelled through tunnels and yet to be used halls the sensation of flying towards the sun increased, becoming an almost overwhelming pressure behind his eyes. It was so vital and pure, so _alive_, not at all like his one and only experience when he had managed to make pilgrimage to the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra. Of course he'd only been as far as the great gates, but just to see those…it was one of the most extraordinary experiences of his life, to stand that close to the Golden Throne, to sense that incredible presence, which he was now coming to realise was a mere shadow of its former glorious self, irrevocably changed and twisted until it was almost unrecognisable, a poor thin substitute compared to this sheer vitality that almost made him want to laugh with the pure joy of just simply being alive.

It became rather obvious that they were approaching the R&amp;D department as the numerous scientists, witches, wizards and engineers that Aquila Industries employed in their most eccentric department had eagerly colonised the nearest part of the underground complex on learning of its existence, filling it with equipment and testing spaces, using it to store materials and all sorts of paraphernalia. The foot traffic also increased, hence the elderly wizard currently pedalling alongside them on a disturbingly pink bicycle with white wheels and a little wicker basket on the front that was full of balefully staring kneazle. The wizard gave them a cheery wave as he turned off towards the Environmental Testing Room, a recent addition which was capable of simulating the conditions of deep space, from the lack of gravity and breathable air to the extreme lows and highs of temperature. Recent reports had very excitedly described the breakthroughs they were making in spacesuit design, particularly maintaining internal pressure while keeping the suit lightweight and flexible. He couldn't wait to try out one himself, they looked to be a vast improvement on the horrors that had been perpetrated on him during scout training, though of course nothing would ever compare to his power armour.

As they arrived at the little station designated "R&amp;D Department – _here be dragons_" by someone of small wit, it was to find the place teeming with staff, scurrying from place to place intent on their tasks, strange and interesting half machines half magical objects being wheeled past on trollies, the sound of many people all with the same purpose intently working towards the same goal.

It made Carrow feel rather wistful.

The psykic presence of the God-Emperor was stronger now, hanging above him, a vertigo inducing weight threatening to crush him with its power, the serfs…no, they were employees, Timothy was very insistent about that, utterly oblivious to the living presence of the god-Emperor of Mankind.

No matter, they would learn. He ploughed his way towards the freight lift, confident that anything in his way would remove itself. How many floors up he wondered as he glared at the control panel, he squinted up unseeingly at the ceiling trying to judge the distance. The God-Emperor's aura was so intense and so diffuse it was impossible to judge, merely giving him the pyskic equivalent of sun-spots.

"Excuse me," an irritated voice snapped somewhere around his lower chest. Carrow directed his glare downward at the annoying meat-sack who had dared approach him. The small man in a hard hat and fluorescent yellow safety jacket glared back, holding his clipboard almost as if it were a shield against all harm. "You do realise that your average cardboard box, under _normal_ circumstances, isn't capable of autonomous movement, in fact is distinctly non-perambulatory."

Carrow glared down at him in incomprehension.

The smaller man narrowed his eyes. "It would be appreciated if you kept that in mind in future," he huffed in disgust. "Anyway, I take it you're here to see Professor Schmidt. He's set up home in one of the reserve labs two floors up, the freak show keep having parties up there. Very noisy too," he eyed Carrow speculatively, "he's a very large gentleman is Professor Schmidt, makes you look like a fay little pixie in comparison," he grinned, sniggering to himself as he walked off.

Shaking his head in puzzlement, he closed the lift door mindful of stray tails and fingers; he had no idea what that was about. "Two floors up," he muttered to himself as he jabbed the relevant button, swaying slightly as the lift jerked into motion.

Two floors up the corridor had been transformed from its pristine utilitarian grey state, much to Carrow's curiosity and disapproval. White-boards had been installed along the walls and then covered in scribbled diagrams and equations in multiple hands; one board had proved too small for its contents so some enterprising individual had taped sheets of paper to the wall and continued their mathematical speculation for several yards. None of which he truly understood despite his best efforts; it looked like more mathematics in his future.

And then there were the objects, strange lumpen tacked together almost things, the most curious of which was the abused looking office chair with a box duct-taped to its back, wires trailing down towards the base and another cardboard box covered in runes. Attached to its seat was a small homemade plaque declaring it to be the _Winner of the Inter-Office Chair Race_.

All of it amounted to an intense and frantic outpouring of scientific creativity shoe-horned into this now cramped corridor, odd equivalents to shrines and icons, that lead directly to the God-Emperor' presence, a plain grey fire-door at the end of the corridor. Some wag had stuck a homemade sign to it announcing _Mumbo-Jumbo in Progress!_ Complete with a cartoon witch on a broomstick, her cat peering owlishly from the back.

The sound of music percolated into the corridor, something cheerful and jaunty; Timothy would probably describe it as "pop". Maybe, Carrow thought, as he examined a diagram of a possible lunar habitat, the God-Emperor's presence was affecting these normal people after all, this incredible creative outpouring; he had started the fire, but now it was as if someone had poured promethean on it.

As he approached, his painful shuffle crawled to a halt as he became acutely aware of his attire, a simply canvas tunic and breeches, more appropriate for training. To his acute embarrassment, the tunic had an ink stain on the front, his hair was a fluffy mess because Timothy was _still_ holding the hair ointment hostage, and then worst of all was just how grimy he felt, his back itching uncomfortably.

This wasn't how he'd imagined ever meeting the God-Emperor, he wasn't exactly covered in the glory of battle for one thing, or his power-armour. He frowned, attempting to tug his tunic into some semblance of order. Cautiously he pushed the door open the volume of the music abruptly increasing…

…_love hearing the stories that they tell. _

_They've seen places beyond my land and they've_

_found new horizons…*_

What in Throne's name was _that_, Carrow paused in the doorway blinking in surprise, oblivious as Artemis shoved past. Standing with his back to him at one of the workstations was the tallest man he had ever seen in his life, clad in a dark blue overall, black hair scraped back in a messy knot in which was stuck a pencil, and a couple of biros. Had the owner of the hair stuck them there and just forgotten, Carrow pondered as he shuffled further into the room, the giant apparently oblivious as he continued studying something intently jigging along to the music, humming along softly.

"…_and to go anywhere that I please_

_As all good friends we talk_

_As all good friends we talk all night, and we fly wing to wing_

_I have questions and they know everything…"*_

The psykic pressure abruptly dropped; Carrow frowned in puzzlement, was this like the eye of a storm, a deceptive calm. Natasha scampered past him too, belly-flopping on an office chair, giggling as her momentum sent her spinning wildly.

The giant turned at the sound. "Oh, hello again," he grinned at the gently spinning vampire, his voice surprisingly soft, "and Artemis too." He grinned down at the tiger who was now rubbing up against his legs leaving a trail of white hair.

"…_is it true I can spread my wings?_

_Flying high, high, I'm a bird in the sky_

_(I'm an eagle)_

_I'm an eagle that rides on the breeze…"*_

He reached down and ruffled the fur at the back of her neck, Artemis rumbling in pleasure, head-butting his knee.

Was this really the God-Emperor, Carrow's thoughts swam, his stomach aching fiercely as he swayed on the spot. Maybe this had been a mistake, maybe he should have waited, but still…

Large hands clasped his shoulders and he looked up startled into a hawkishly handsome face, olive brown skin glowing with health, and the most startling eyes he'd ever seen. To his consternation the God-Emperor was peering down at him, a look of concern on his face.

_The God-Emperor was touching him._

Limbs trembling with exhaustion, overcome with emotion, Carrow knelt as best he could, before the rightful ruler of Mankind. "My Lord," he said too far gone to feel embarrassed when his voice hitched, "I am your servant. Command me."

"_What_?" the God-Emperor exclaimed. "No, no…I, well, not yet, anyway…I think."

Carrow frowned at the floor, was this some sort of test? If it was, he was truly struggling to understand, his mind exhausted and muddy from the pain. A heavy weight slammed into his back, large paws draping over his shoulders as something affectionate nuzzled at his neck and head, rumbling and huffing as she did so, reaching over and pawing at the God-Emperor's hair lifting dark strands of black as he chuckled and ruffled her ears. "She's a real beauty," he crooned, "I've been taking her for walkies while you've been poorly. She's been as good as gold…apart from that time she grabbed that jack russel. It was fine after I wiped all the slobber off…"

He tried to bite back the groan of pain, but the wave of pain as Artemis shifted on his back to playfully bite at his shoulder was so excruciating his vision went grey at the edges.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," the God-Emperor gasped as he peeled Artemis off his back dodging her teasingly snapping jaws, "what am I thinking of."

Carrow found himself hustled into a chair and then semi-wrestled into some sort of jersey top, that was most definitely not his considering its awful bright blue colour. Worse, it had a jaunty image of coconut trees on the front.

"You must be freezing…I'm not being a very good host am I, mind you this is your property so…" the God-Emperor rambled, Carrow watching dazedly, "anyway call me Jon, all my friends do," he grinned, "can I get you a cup of coffee?"

Carrow nodded mutely, his brain struggling and failing with the idea of calling the living God-Emperor of Mankind _Jon _at _his_ invitation. The mug of coffee that was soon pressed into his hands didn't help matters either; was it in some way sacred, imbued as it was with the very presence of the God-Emperor? Should he seal the beverage in a flask and place it within a reliquary for posterity? Or should he just drink it?

"Well…" the God-Emperor gave a satisfied sigh as he settled back on one of the other office chairs, gently nudging a squirming Artemis with his foot, "I've been looking forward to meeting you face to face Allesandor…can I call you Xander? I've really enjoyed our correspondence…"

Carrow blinked, _Xander_? He absolutely _hated_ it, but how could he say no?

"…Some really exciting work done for an initial prototype for a propulsion unit that would be efficient enough to make exploration of the Solar System a real possibility…I've always wanted to visit Mars…and Titan…"

His brain scrambling to keep up with this most curious turn of events, Carrow blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "The Astartes program…restart it…please my Lord," he watched the God-Emperor nervously. What had possessed him to be so forward, and to practically beg, he resisted the urge to shift in the chair determined to hide his embarrassment and discomfort in front of this divine being who was now studying him intently as if he were some sort of fascinating puzzle begging to be solved. It was rather disconcerting.

"You're lonely," the God-Emperor finally said, "everything you've written in your letters, everything you've told me about the Astartes…they're gregarious and even when they wish to be alone, they feel better knowing their brothers are nearby. It must be terrible for you to know with absolute certainty that you are in fact completely alone, that you are utterly unique."

Carrow stared down at his feet, his mouth suddenly dry, his chest aching with the pain of permanent separation from everything he had known. He was Astartes, for Throne's sake, he wasn't some mewling, sentimental little meat-sack, but still he ached.

"I take it you have found suitable candidates for the…geneseed process if I manage to replicate it in some way."

"Indeed I have…my Lord," Carrow said, it was true he had indeed gathered a motley assortment of oddments, stashing them safely away just for this sort of opportunity.

"And you do realise that likely most of them will not survive the process. Even under ideal conditions not every…recipient responds well to having his physiology altered so drastically."

Not everyone was called to serve the God-Emperor in that way. Carrow looked around the lab; Natasha was standing in the middle of the floor shifting from foot to foot gently muttering to herself. He listened for a moment, but as usual he couldn't make any sense of the soft sounds. "It is an honour to be selected for the geneseed and to give one's life for the benefit of Humanity…"

"Hmmm. I'm not sure they'll see it like that…I think, though, we'd be better postponing this conversation for a later date." The God-Emperor gave him a concerned look. "On to more pressing matters I think…I'm sure I had a packet of chocolate digestives around here somewhere…"

OOOOOO

Absolutely no stray socks, Ron grinned as he crawled back out from under his bed. He couldn't remember being this organised ever. He and Nev had carefully combed the dorms for any last stray belongings last night, but to be honest they'd already been pretty much packed by then. Actually he hadn't even got round to unpacking most of his things, all the "civi" stuff having firmly remained in his trunk.

He looked around, smirking at Seamus and Deans' mad scramble as they rooted around in a panic finding that last pair of underpants, the stray sock, the spare parchment, books, even a school robe in Dean's case. He grinned as Seamus threw a pair of y-fronts at Dean's head; if only they'd joined the DC, it wasn't all about Defence.

Maybe he could get some extra pull-ups in; he did a quick tempus charm, he'd got time for the odd set. Jumping up, he grabbed the frame of his bed, quickly settling into a rhythm as the comforting soreness spread across his upper-back and down his arms.

"You'd never know that was our ickle little brother would you?" one of the Twins commented from the doorway. "So tall and broad and full of muscle."

Glaring, Ron ignored them as he continued with his exercise. "Sixteen…seventeen…eighteen…" he huffed quietly to himself.

"Just the red hair and the freckles to give him away," a twin commented from beside him.

Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Ron dropped to the floor. "What do you two want?" he growled at the nearest one. Fred's (or was it George's) eyes went wide as he backed up a couple of steps, hands held up defensively.

"Calm, little brother," he said, "think soothing thoughts of fluffy little kittens and such things. Can't a bloke just come and check up on his little brother?"

"Make sure he's all right, all limbs attached correctly, trunk packed and all weapons stowed," the other one joined in.

"And we sincerely hope you're leaving that mace behind because if Mum finds you with it…"

"Oooh, she'll be awful," the first Twin sighed wistfully, "I can just imagine it, the shrieks of horror, the wails of sorrow, the cries of "where did I go wrong?" the imploring to Dad to get involved…"

"Oh, shove off you two," Ron snapped, "you only want something to distract Mum from your business plan with that Sirius Black. I'm not getting involved in that mess, not for anything." He gave them a speculative glare. "Anyway, haven't you two still got packing to do?"

The Twins shuffled their feet guiltily. "Well…"

"Well, you were just leaving," Hermione snapped behind them.

The Twins grinned nervously, turning to find their little brother's best friend standing in the doorway, giving them a glare almost worthy of Carrow, Neville and Colin peering round her.

"Sure,"

"Of course,"

"We were indeed just leaving."

"Don't be a stranger, Ronnikins," they chorused as they sidled warily past Hermione. Ron shrugged, exasperated at his annoying brothers. Turning he gave Dean and Seamus speculative looks as the Defence Club members filed into the room.

"Oh come on," Dean complained as he dumped a pile of paperbacks into his trunk. Seamus gave them a murderous glare.

"Shouldn't you have been packed last night?" Hermione asked coldly.

"Sod off, psycho," Seamus snarled, recoiling as Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "This is our dorm," he whined.

"Unless you want to become a Defence Club member…" Neville shrugged apologetically as he stepped round Hermione, intent on readying his potted plant for the journey home. The furry purple cactus seemed rather reluctant in this plan though, and was doing its best to fight off the brown paper that Neville was attempting to wrap around its pot.

"You bastards," Dean whined, "we've only got another hour to go!" He waved at the tangled pile of clothes on his bed in despair.

Hermione glared at him as she pulled out her wand. With a flick the clothes pile floated up, detangling itself, folding and settling in Dean's trunk in a strange dance of trousers and shirts and odd socks. "Honestly," she growled, "that one is so basic."

"Please guys," Ron hurriedly interrupted before Dean could decide that attempting to tear Hermione apart with his bare hands was a brilliant idea, "we'll only be ten…fifteen minutes, absolute maximum. Okay?"

Seamus snarled wordlessly at him as he stormed out of the dorm close on Dean's heels, the door slamming loudly behind them.

"Ermm…" Colin shifted nervously, clutching his book-bag to his chest, watching the older students warily.

"Right, now they've gone, _finally_," Hermione huffed, pulling a small black book out from inside her jacket, "keep it safe!" she snapped, as she thrust it at Colin, who nodded frantically, eyes wide as he stuffed it into the depths of his bag.

"Sure thing, Ripper," he squeaked.

oOo

Ron nearly jumped out of his skin as the compartment door slammed open, an exuberant Millicent Bulstrode diving through, Greg hot on her heels.

"Hermione," she squealed, "you've got to tell us what happened with Binns and that book. We've been desperate to know all year and now the most outrageous rumours are circulating around Slytherin. I think Tabby Dunwich's head is going to explode. _Please_, Ripper."

Ron hid a snort of laughter as the strapping girl batted her eyelashes, tilting her head slightly to complete the effect. "Dunwich?" he asked. "Isn't she a prefect?"

"And gossip queen of Slytherin," Greg nodded, "her mum's a senior editor at the Prophet. Must be in the blood," he shrugged.

Hermione groaned. "Come on, guys," she sighed, "it's just so embarrassing, and I nearly got myself and Ron killed. I'm still having nightmares about the whole thing with the roof…"

Millicent attempted an adorable pout.

"Okay, okay," Hermione held up her hands, "I yield. After you and Greg and Colin retrieved the book for me, I started doing research…"

Ron went back to the window with a smile as Hermione began to explain the whole unfortunate incident with the rabbit, watching the world slip by as the Hogwarts Express chugged along, through hills of craggy outcrops and small valleys dotted with sheep, through which ran fast flowing streams that would suddenly dive under the railway, the sound of the train altering as they passed over a bridge. Overhead in the hazy blue sky, he could see what he now knew to be the vapour trails left behind by high-flying muggle aircraft. Muggle Studies was all very well (and he'd actually found the time to sit down and look through Percy's old text-books much to his brother's delight), but it was the little things like this that slipped your average wizard up. Just the huge impact muggles had had on the world, inescapable, intruding everywhere you turned, often in surprising ways…didn't Mr Carrow have a muggle aircraft? Maybe he could be persuaded to take them up in it…to fly higher than any broom, above the clouds and look down at the world spread out…

"…after all this time, somebody could have just asked him," Millicent sounded quite outraged, Ron thought, "of all the…that's insane." She leaned back, her expression thoughtful. "Kind of genius too. So blindingly obvious that nobody had even wondered, or thought to enquire…"

Greg nodded slowly. "Though I'm sure a lot of people considered it, but didn't like to enquire. Their deaths can be quite a touchy topic for your average ghost. There's no knowing how they'll react, and if it's badly…" he shuddered.

"Not sure I'd ever like to ask the Grey Lady how she died," Hermione said.

Millie winced. "Or the Bloody Baron."

The carriage slipped into awkward silence for a moment.

"So, where are we holding the summer DC meetings, then?" Millie asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Ron perked up. "I was wondering, maybe the Lodge again. It _is_ the place with the least complications," he looked around the thoughtful faces of the others, "or Longbottom Manor? You've got those awesome walled gardens and that maze…great for ambush practice and that…"

"Sure your Gran won't mind," Millie asked carefully.

"Oh no," Neville grinned happily, "she's really thrilled that I've got so many friends now. In fact she loves the Defence Club, keeps boasting to her luncheon club that I'm mentioned as a founding member in _Hogwarts: A History_. Apparently even my dad didn't manage something like that…" His grin became more of a grimace. He shrugged, going back to his plant. "Do you think," he said after a moment, "Mr Carrow would let us use the firing range again? Those rifle things were scary but weirdly brilliant."

"I'd have thought it very likely Mr Carrow would allow it," Hermione said, "supervised of course."

"So that's settled then," Millie smiled happily, "the Lodge if at all possible, Longbottom Manor as backup. Excellent…so, any plans?" She turned expectantly to Hermione.

The other girl broke into a nasty grin, pulling the American Auror manual from her bag. "Oh yes," she smirked, "I've got my hands on the most amazing training manual, with some brilliant dual wielding techniques...I reckon it's worth trying to get Chuddy in on this…"

OOOOOO

The tinkle of broken glass caught Carrow's attention; he looked up from his book with narrowed eyes. The house was quiet at the moment, nobody but the domestic staff present, the English Heritage nutters were away at some meeting or other, possibly for lessons on passive aggression. The archaeologists were over on the other side of the house having a massive argument about the gardeners' buildings. There seemed to be some dissension over where they were medieval farm labours cottages, or in fact the remains of an Anglo-Saxon village. Some of the militia had actually opened a betting pool on whether it would degenerate into a physical fight…

4/5 fisticuffs would ensue…

10/1 the Head Archaeologist would wade in to break up the unseemly behaviour…

1/5 everyone would end up in the pub afterwards…

Maybe instead of concentrating on monetary gain his arms-men (and women) should hand the participants some weapons. It would certainly make things more interesting and then he could recruit the survivors, but then that was just his opinion.

There was a small thud followed by muffled cursing; that was definitely not a member of the domestic staff. Intrigued, Carrow went to investigate, eager to escape the boredom of paperwork Timothy had decided to saddle him with, mainly, he suspected, as a form of punishment. He'd snuck into the training hall while he'd thought no one was watching and managed to complete a short regime of exercises and even go through some staff forms. His injury had ached fiercely afterwards, but the feeling of achievement had been wonderful, until he found Timothy was standing there glaring; his apprentice had turned and stormed out without a word, and that was when the paperwork made an appearance. He'd washed and dressed only to find his desk snowed under with letters and files and other myriad things all vying for his attention. Secretly, he was rather proud.

The sound of muffled thump, a soft smashing sound and more muttered curses filtered along the corridor as Carrow followed his ears to the source in one of the sitting rooms in the newer Tudor part of the building. It was a room he hadn't quite got round to doing anything with yet, mostly due to its oppressively low (for him) ceiling. Plus Bernard and his minions had thrown a tantrum when he mentioned getting rid of the shabby old wallpaper. Apparently it was a particularly rare and interesting example from some manufactorium called Merris or Morris or something like that. And so he had let this particular room be; maybe he would come back to on a rainy day, or when he was feeling particularly vindictive.

Now, in among the motley collection of dusty furniture a youth lurked, the hood of his jacket pulled up tightly, the lower half of his face obscured with a red bandana. Carefully, Carrow sidled into the room; it appeared they had caught the attentions of an opportunistic burglar, who was now squatting down, a large bag open by his feet, rooting through a cupboard, shards of broken pottery littering the floor near his feet.

Grinning broadly, Carrow crept up behind the young man who remained oblivious.

"It's a pity you broke the window," he boomed, "that was the original glass you know, rare and _irreplaceable._"

The youth squawked, jumping back but ended up sprawled half on his back limbs flailing. Panicked, he spun round, his eyes going wide as he took just what was standing behind him.

"The people from English Heritage will be furious," Carrow smirked at him, "in fact I wouldn't be surprised if they decided to burn you at the stake or some equally painful method of death."

Edging slowly away, the youth looked around frantically for some possible escape route through the tangle of furniture, to his entry point…or maybe the door…

"Do you think I'm overdressed?" Carrow asked looking down at his yellow and black robe. He'd worn it open over a body-glove and partial armour, this time blackened steel, the Purgatus of St Seraphim back where it belonged, around his chest. It felt so wonderful to be able to wear something more elaborate than his simple training garments, but maybe he'd gone a little overboard.

"Maybe the pattern is a little over bold," Carrow considered the matter, "I designed it myself," he said proudly as he straightened out a panel of the garment so the would-be-burglar could admire the skulls in their acanthus niches and the roundels filled with just-readable spiritually up-lifting text.

The youth was staring at him now in a way normally reserved for the dangerously insane, backing away on his bottom very slowly, maybe hoping he wouldn't notice the slight movement until it was too late.

"Maybe English Heritage would be merciful to you if you agreed to enslave yourself to them, become an indentured worker possibly…hmm," Carrow eyed the contents of the boy's bag with a raised eyebrow, "I don't think much of your selection, very dull, but then that is why I left that particular dinner service in here," he glared at the overly floral plates.

"Yes, the service I picked in the end for everyday use," he inched closer to the youth who was now trying to slink behind a mahogany occasional table still on his bottom, "was especially made for the funeral of my great grandfather I believe. It's a suitably sombre affair that aids contemplation of the frailty of the human condition while eating one's dinner, an economy of effort I quite approve of…though certain members of the household have pointed out the efficacy of skulls with maggots crawling out of their eye sockets on reducing appetite. Very effective, apparently," he smiled nastily at the youth who began to panic as his shoulder blades hit the solid bulk of an old oak dresser, neatly trapping him in a cul-de-sac in the stray furniture.

Carrow smirked down at him, "I rather think your career as a freelance robber is over…"

The youth lunged towards him with a yell, wildly brandishing a knife. He didn't even think about it, his hand coming up in an open-handed slap that sent the youth crashing into a set of shelves, slumping to the ground, bonelessly.

Carrow sighed in annoyance, so much for entertainment. That hadn't lasted long, flimsy little meat sack. He didn't seem too badly damaged, no blood, so possibly no long-term brain damage. He gave him a gentle prod with his foot. Now what to do with him? Well, he was always on the lookout for fresh material for his pseudo-servitors…or he could always…his smile broadened into a grin as he tucked the miscreant under his arm. He could present him to the God-Emperor as another potential candidate.

OOOOOO

"What's going on?" Rita asked as she took in the motley gathering in the panelled dining room.

Timothy shrugged. "I think Mr Carrow is going to announce something to do with his will. I'm not certain, he's been extremely secretive about the entire thing," he said with a sigh.

Rita eyed the tall man carefully, taking note of the deep shadow under his remaining eye, the bandage over the empty right socket now replaced with a black velvet eye-patch.

"Not going to go for a magical replacement?" she asked. Timothy gave her a puzzled frown. "Your eye," Rita explained.

"Oh…Merlin no," Timothy exclaimed, "and end up looking like old Mad-Eye Moody, plus it's bad enough all the staring when I go to visit my family as it is," he glared down at his dolman and sash, "no need to make things even worse." He suddenly jerked round, scowling. "Oh those little…" he muttered as he stormed down the corridor towards the Undercroft, a puzzled Rita trailing in his wake. The sound of childish giggling and running and something else drifted round the corner.

Rita goggled at the strange muffle contraption that Felix was straddling. How on Earth did something with only two wheels manage to go along, especially since he had a young friend sitting on the seat?

"No cycling inside," Timothy snapped, "you know the rules, Felix, Tiffany."

The children's faces fell. "Ahhh," Felix complained with a scowl, "but it's raining!" He pouted, his ears flat against his skull.

"Irrelevant," Timothy glared, "when you are inside, you will keep to _indoor_ activities, young man, and that means absolutely _no cycling_ in the Undercroft. It is highly disruptive and disrespectful towards Mrs Thorpe, Cook and all the other members of the staff who keep this house in smooth running order."

The children dismounted, leaving the bicycle leant against the wall near a row of wellington boots, shuffling past. "Sorry," Tiffany whispered as she went past before hurrying to catch up with her sort-of cousin who was now stamping his way towards the main staircase in a fine sulk.

Rita shook her head as she watched them go. "Children," she sighed with a smirk, "who'd have them." Timothy snorted with laughter.

"I have news for you," Rita said as they walked back to the panelled dining room. She looked around cautiously, were they being overlooked? "On my travels through Knockturn I've come across some rather interesting erm…people."

Timothy gestured for her to continue. Running her hand over the short spikes of her hair Rita considered where to begin, "I was investigating those kidnappings, as you asked…went around all my usual sources, then started following up some possible leads…to see where they would go…anyway, I stalked this pair of right geniuses for the better part of a week. They were involved in some kidnappings…but not for brothels, but erm…" she looked around nervously, "ritual magic…some rumours I heard suggested revenants even…"

Timothy held up a hand, gesturing for her to follow as he slipped down a side corridor and opened a door seemingly at random. The room beyond hadn't been got at by Carrow, being far too shabby and normal for that.

"What…" Rita began but Timothy shook his head. Pulling out his wand he began to cast a series of anti-eavesdropping and silencing charms finishing with a small rune sequence on the floor. Rita eyed the glowing blue symbols curiously. "I thought that was an old wives' tale," she commented.

Timothy shrugged. "If it works…I had someone from R&amp;D take a look at it. Apparently it's very subtle, doesn't outright block over-hearing a conversation, it makes it difficult to remember it and the effect increases with time too. Interesting little bit of magic."

"Huh," well that was interesting and useful to know, Rita thought as she eyed the runes with new appreciation.

"Revenants," Timothy said as he settled into an over-stuffed armchair that was missing a couple of its buttons.

Rita blinked. "Yes, revenants. Those two _gentlemen_ I mentioned, well, they weren't kidnapping girls for the brothels, instead they were collecting them specifically for use in ritual magic…for a woman, who they only knew as _the Lady_ or _She_…"

"Seriously," Timothy frowned perplexed, "that's really stupid of me just assuming that only men would be involved in this mess…women can be just as evil, it is an equal opportunities sort of thing after all…" He gestured for her to continue.

"Apparently, she has horns, some sort of experiment gone wrong if you ask me," Rita said as she dug through her bag looking for her notebook.

Timothy snorted with laughter. "Sounds like a Ravenclaw."

"At least she should be fairly easy to identify…but there were other rumours. I'm not sure if they're in any way connected to the kidnappings or not…ah hah," she exclaimed as she finally pulled her notebook free from the dark hiding place at the bottom of her bag it always seemed to lodge itself in. She flipped through it a moment. "Here," she handed it over to Timothy, "I had to draw it from memory so it might not be completely accurate, but there's this group…I know that _groups _and covens and secret societies are almost like a growth industry in the Knockturn area, but this group…the couple of members I came across were muggle-born…"

"And this is their symbol," Timothy frowned, "isn't this the astrological symbol for Saturn, oddly appropriate I suppose, personal growth through adversity and all that, though I didn't do Divination, seemed like such a loose and woolly subject to me."

Rita shrugged. "They just seemed a bit weird. I know most of these groups are glorified social clubs with secret handshakes but this one…they just seemed to be grimmer than the others. I just thought they might be worth keeping an eye on…"

"Indeed," Timothy handed the notebook back, "remember a couple of months ago when that bunch of ridiculous idiots were caught when their experimental breeding got out of control?"

"Oh grief," Rita sighed, "who the hell thought attempting to cross ashwinders with puffskeins was in any way a sensible idea…"

They both jumped at the thunderous banging on the door, reaching for wands and other weapons.

"Hey guys," Wulfric glared at them suspiciously as he put his head round the door, "are you coming to this meeting or not, because if you think I'm going to sit through one of the Big Guy's crazy announcements alone you're highly mistaken."

"Fine, fine we're coming," Timothy sighed.

The panelled dining room held a small crowd, maybe only a dozen people all told, all with puzzled and impatient expressions, members of staff from both Aquila Industries and the Ministry, waiting for what-ever-this-was, a strange hodge-podge of wizarding robes and smart muggle attire, people from such different background all flung together by fate and a lunatic, now nervously making small talk. Rita blinked in bewilderment. "Will-reading?" she asked Timothy.

"I'm hoping so," he glared at Carrow who was looking uncharacteristically sombre, one hand resting on a large leather (Rita suspected human skin) bound book, "but I'm not getting my hopes up," he growled as the giant man rose to his feet his leather cassock shifting around him, the miniature skulls of his long necklace rattling slightly in the sudden silence.

"Now that we are all present," Carrow's voice boomed as he looked around the gathering. Rita ducked instinctively behind Timothy as his gaze passed over her; she still wasn't comfortable near the bastard.

"It has been brought to my attention that I have seriously overlooked an important fact…that of my own mortality."

"So he's actually admitting to being wrong," Rita muttered, maybe she should take a peek out of the window, to see if pigs had indeed learnt to fly or a cow had jumped over the moon.

"So in order to rectify this lamentable oversight on my part I have arranged my will, both magical and non-magical. I will go into greater detail over the contents at a later date."

Beside her, Rita felt Timothy tense, as a soft groan of annoyance rippled around the room.

"If for some reason it became necessary we may need to become independent, then we need a framework of law to govern our finances, justice, our foreign policy even."

"Foreign policy," Timothy snarled storming forward, "what do you mean _foreign policy_?"

Carrow blinked, seemingly quite bemused at his apprentice's outrage. "This is for the long-term. If at any time the Government of this…country turns on us then we will be able to enact my contingency plan," he explained slowly and carefully, "do not be overly concerned, Timothy." He placed a reassuring hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "I have a certain amount of experience in setting up governing bodies from scratch, having done it on no less than eight separate occasions." He gave everyone a reassuring smile.

Rita could quite happily say she was completely and utterly un-reassured. Timothy seemed to agree with her in the situation, considering how stiff and stony his expression had gone.

The lady next to her, attired in a neat suit dress and pearls stifled a small snort of laughter. "Poor Tim," she sighed, "looks like he's just discovered how deep the rabbit hole goes." She held out a manicured hand. "Maria Curtis, Aquila Industries."

"Oh…erm, pleased to meet you," Rita stuttered as she shook the proffered hand. "Rita Skeeter, Investigative Journalist…and I work for Mr Faulks."

"Ah," Curtis smiled in understanding, "closer to the cliff-face of insanity, or something like that."

"Something like that," Rita muttered back as she watched Timothy warily; his face had gone rather pale and his hands had begun to shake as Carrow continued explaining.

"…will have enough good will that we will be able to call it in when we go to the UN to declare sovereignty, and of course by that time we will most likely have some fully functioning settlements, at least on Lunar but maybe Mars as well. Which means we will have adequate accesses to various natural resources and the raw materials required to continue our operations here…"

"This lunar base…can we have a radio telescope?" Franklin blurted out.

Everyone turned and glared at the Head of the R&amp;D department.

OOOOOO

Mr Faulks looked at the large leather bound book dubiously, "honestly Tim I'm not sure about this. I'm not sure I can do much to help you…I'm a family solicitor…"

"Dad."

"The most exciting thing, not that I'm sure exciting is the word for it, that I've dealt with was a dispute over a hedge…"

"_Dad."_

"…got thoroughly out of hand when one of those involved drove his tractor through the other person's caravan…"

"DAD."

Mr Faulks stopped mid-rant frowning in worry at his youngest son who looked indistinct need of a good eight hours of sleep and several hearty meals.

"Dad, all I need you to do is look through it, give it a once over and see if it will actually do what Carrow claims it will. I'm not asking for any great insights," Timothy sighed, "just…I don't know…something." He slumped, visibly aging ten years. "Please, you're my last hope. Mr Carrow's solicitors both did their nuts at some of the more…extreme contents, space colonies and policing mining operation in the asteroid belt and stuff. Though I think the bit where the Lump basically declared Humanity the rightful rulers of the Galaxy…in the name of the God-Emperor of course…"

Mr Faulks stared. "God-Emperor?"

"…one of the solicitors, the normal mundane one, suggested we use that bit as loo paper. I managed to stop him saying it in front of Carrow but still…"

"This God-Emperor," Mr Faulks gave his son a dubious look.

"Oh yeah, I've met him. He's alright, nice guy, physicist, very tall, and quite convinced he's not a deity or divine in any way…he's quite extraordinary, I've watched him work, and…well… "

"Right…okay…" Mr Faulks peered in concern at his son. It was best not to pry too far into Tim's private life, sometimes the stories his youngest came out with were even more hair-raising than anything Mattie had ever recounted. Whatever Tim was mixed up in was borderline legal at the best of times, but now he'd turned up on the doorstep on what had been an unassuming evening with a gaggle of odd people asking him impossible questions.

"Is it all right if I open the chocolate hobnobs?" the short and shabby man who'd been introduced as Franklin asked from the kitchen doorway. "Just getting a little peckish and I didn't want to just dive in if you were saving them for a special occasion."

"It's fine, Frank," Timothy gave the man a tight smile, "I'll be through in a moment."

Franklin nodded and retreated back to the living room, a bounce in his step. Timothy sighed as he rubbed at his remaining eye. "Right…where were we?" he said, only to find his dad staring intently in the direction of the living room. "Dad?"

"Who are they?" Mr Faulks asked suddenly.

"Work colleagues mainly," Timothy eyed him with concern.

"Right…well," Mr Faulks scooped the contentious book up, "look, I'll do what I can, look through it for you alright….but it might take a while." He gave his son a strained smile and scurried off to the reassuring sanctuary of his study.

OOOOOO

The others looked up as he entered the living room, tense and expectant.

"Any joy?" Clarrisa Slyte asked from her place on the sofa.

Timothy sighed, rubbing at the scars that marred the right side of his face; they always seemed to pick the most inconvenient moments to start aching. "Maybe," he huffed, annoyed as he took in the state of the packet of chocolate hobnobs. Frank at least had the grace to look embarrassed, and edge away from a glaring Chuddy.

"Please, wonderful darling Timothy," Caroline held out a hand.

Timothy tried to claim ignorance.

"I can smell those blood-pops from here you know," Caroline smiled sweetly displaying her sharp teeth.

"Honestly," Timothy grumbled as he dug through a pocket the wretched confection, "they rot your teeth, you know."

Caroline merely laughed.

"Dad is going to look it over, though I suspect it will take him a few weeks," Timothy sighed as he sank down next to the annoying vampire.

"We don't have a choice, do we? It's not an if, it's a when," Curtis commented, "Carrow is…at some point in the future, he's going to do something so catastrophic and blatant that he's going to draw the attention of the UN, Nato, the ICW, you name it, and we'll have to do something like…this," she vaguely waved a hand, "just to survive…and the company's being doing so well too."

"Do you think he'd deliberately do something to cause us to have to use the…book?" Caroline asked, her dark ringlets bobbing as she tilted her head. The others pondered the question a moment.

"No…no, I don't think so," Timothy said his eyes fixed on the familiar floral fitted carpet his parents had had for the last twenty years, "he doesn't really need to, does he, what with his talent for the very worst kinds of trouble."

"Don't be bloody stupid," Chuddy snorted, "course he bloody would, if he thought it was advantageous in some way."

The room fell into uncomfortable silence.

"So, we will have to endure," Caroline nodded, smoothing her skirts with pale hands, her red eyes gleaming in the electric light, "and be prepared."

"And not lose our nerve," Wulfric piped up.

"Thank you, Wulfric, for that cheerful thought," Franklin huffed.

"Just saying," the werewolf shrugged.

"And he has a point," Timothy looked around the small group taking in the nervous expressions, "no matter what, once we follow this possible course of action, we must not falter."

"Any more choccy biscuits?" Chuddy asked hopefully.

OOOOOO

*Lyrics are from _Eagle_ by ABBA. Written by Benny Anderson and Bjorn Ulvaeus. Copyright, Union Songs Musikforlag AB.


	11. Chapter 11

Inquisitor Carrow and the Vigilantes Vague

Inquisitor Carrow returns…

There is only one possible explanation, the God-Emperor had decided to test his faith and his resolve. Why else was his life the mess it currently was, the apothecarian is still insisting he is not fully healed, the little politicians of the Wizengamot seem to think they can sneak things past him in his "weakened" state and worst of all his opportunities to smite the enemies of Humanity seemed to have dried up like spit in the desert.

But no matter how he is tested, he will prevail, and prove his faith, his worthiness...


End file.
